(title borrowed from a line by H.L. Hix) At last, the little notebook has run dry. I do not know my body from any other body. Because God is perfect, He cannot heal. I believe in the smallest tautologies: their exquisite gem-like facets cover me in the dark, like a lantern lowered deep into an… [Read More]
G.C. Waldrep
Epitaphion
Rorschach of the swollen creek, marsh-land, undertide, the lilies anchoring the lower bank hunched into their green adolescence. Dead-nettle empurpling the freshening fields— some god is combing this oily wool, has sent his little kleptomaniacs into the glistering world. Some god’s hand lies heavy on the molded features of your still face. A vein beats… [Read More]