We are the cobs shucked sweetly of all story. Field husks lost to the wash. Lumbering away on a wedge of dead red clays, crimped in a rictus of light. We will outwait us, the congenitally aft, and the never of all of this is ours.
Jeffrey Little | Wheeling into Crisco Contents | Mudlark No. 47 (2012)