Joe Hill

Given the trajectory of night perhaps an image confused with a mouthful. She took out and showed me, looked like foliage. on the couch, dried out in folds waiting to be found and put to coloured rest. Someone sleeping is …

the white translation. the last time that floor was crossed rain was spilt on plain paper diaries. From the bed I watched your bare feet. open the window I said and you left the scene change, just like a parachute …

In bitumen the heat has a symbol. the road resists crossing, corneas and the sun combing the intersection for glints like a dark bird. the sun has extracted every black, this quarter is tropical suburban, every corner has a petrol …

the blue cover, the blue cover unearth grasses unearth guns and a regiment of human frailties in green. can’t see anything but blue lying on its back looking up with holes in me just like neutral cheese. when the war …