August spits and holds

[Leanne]

I have moved the last post on this thread here.

Any further posts on this particular thread, however, should be direct critique of the poem:

you dismiss all prominent apocalypse theories where saints prevail and shove the dining room in the closet.

I know your restlessness, the tangled scent of red. there's nothing heroic about this.

you're irresistible amongst flat tires, and the minutia of a daytime half-moon.