It was a slow, massive roar. A dense wall-of-sound that couldn't possibly be made by one person, no matter how many microphones were hooked up to how many speakers. A scratchy, grainy blend of
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Originally published in "The Futurist's Mistress" by Mayapple Press, 2006
The gray field of the rain had risen.
She slept on the worn patchwork quilt
of the sky.
When she woke up,
she dreamt that her house was flying,
that a witch rode by—
past the clouds, on a bicycle.
Where was the air going?
The wind poured out from her eyes.
She slept on the worn patchwork quilt
of the sky.
When she woke up,
she dreamt that her house was flying,
that a witch rode by—
past the clouds, on a bicycle.
Where was the air going?
The wind poured out from her eyes.