Be soft with thyself, My gentle lover, Yet in the proper time and place, Know when to be hard: Like the flint, Whose severity sparks a fire
Read MoreAs icelets beat my ears and prick my cheeks, The candle fire of Hestia bobs within a glass cup, laying its yellow hands on the offering of wine for Dionysos: three dark bottles in the snow. With a palm-full…
Read MoreRotting Silver is a column devoted to this Earth in all its tarnished radiance: poetry, prose, and parables of ugliness alloyed with joy.
Read MoreRotting Silver is a column devoted to this Earth in all its tarnished radiance: poetry, prose, and parables of ugliness alloyed with joy.
Read MoreRotting Silver is a column devoted to this Earth in all its tarnished radiance: poetry, prose, and parables of ugliness alloyed with joy.
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