often in the night i can hear him call out, i don’t know to whom. his restless heart beats in an endless struggle against the confines of whiskey bottles and pain killers and solemn opinions and all other manner of maddening things. a father who once held death in his hands like a black-haired reaper,…

out in the night, lightning, waves of it behind half-clouds conjure memories not belonging to any living thing one but of the whole, the passing of things in the dark. the macrocosm, the aggregate that stills all questioning and motive, a voice beyond reckoning, a singular point to draw from, inward the quiet that has…