… 1 Looking at the springs, sitting in the sun something at my nape begins to tickle like the wind’s moving a hair there, fickle on my bare neck between the scalp and trunk. I’m reading the poet Bill Kushner—Ah! … Continue reading
… 1 Looking at the springs, sitting in the sun something at my nape begins to tickle like the wind’s moving a hair there, fickle on my bare neck between the scalp and trunk. I’m reading the poet Bill Kushner—Ah! … Continue reading