Club bright, come blush & blurred. Bluish backdrops of noise. Throb me into scene. His clink, their collect & clamber. • For hours men face nothing but the north: glitter, hipped raw—unbuckle me. A chiasmus of hands makes wanting seem, somehow, ever. Writhing wet & weatherless, we watched our tongues unslang. Your robe lashed our… [Read More]
Brad Trumpfheller is a writer and bookseller living in Boston. Originally of the South, their work has appeared in or is forthcoming from The Nation, Colorado Review, TYPO, Indiana Review, West Branch, and elsewhere.