11 P.M.

Black rain pours, we hold rituals dispelling death, not a partial second too late; a surgeon gives instructions on removing the PVC pipes clogging our hearts; men grieve their youth and learn to love the shadows in the mirror.

When the sun rises—and the sun never fails to rise—clouds burn with the urgency of a fever dream, breaching shadows and streetlights, the smoke and sublime; we wake; we hope; we march as one and fold light into the farthest sides of the moon.

A short fiction anthology

Collections of poetry & Prose