John Burns

I Packed snow’s hard light slices back at the brick building. Edges of frozen water overwhelm. Fogler Library is a fortress tonight. He does not go in. Sometimes he goes about needing an answer. The porcelain echoes of dream life snap brittle. All the pages in all the books in all the libraries go blank with disbelief. Nothing deserves clearness. Paper crumpled utterance. This ocean of paper and no salt. II so to the bar to drink silence bar as dark as mother’s womb beer as thick as death...
  • 20 junio, 2020
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