Around us other bubbles rise.
If every night he plucks black swans and floats their feathers down the stream that runs fast past his castle...
Let me tell you about redemption.
The light that kept her fingers brown once opens onto the beach, across the dunes, past the pines, then stalls but a second above the clearing where a pitcher pump and rusty cup lie abandoned in weeds beside a shed. On the limbs of the oak scrubs roofing the road leading in, dew hangs before … Continue reading ‘Funeral’ by Trent Busch
Mozart on a Monday. Schubert in a drizzle.