cul de sac

Winter’s cloak is tattered rags. The white counterpane wore away so quickly. All that’s left are isolated patches of moraine-encrusted glacier. Walking home, late at night, there’s a sense of suspended animation. Somehow this freezing space is freezing time. Still, incontestable imperatives propel the body onwards, comet-like, through cold emptiness, to describe another eccentric orbit.

castaway
watching Noah’s ark
crest the horizon

David J. Kelly

cul de sac

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