An eternity, recollected. How long had he been waiting for the twitch at the end of the line? First sleep of a night. A thudding—concrete walls falling in a vast underground room. The photographer called freaks “aristocrats,” born already with their trauma, not needing, as we do, to discover it.
Boyer Rickel Read Bio Author Discusses Poems
|©copyright 2004-2019, No Tell Motel. All poems ©copyright the authors.|