The knife was dull—deliberately so. Adagio ran his thumb along the edge again, testing, savoring the muted resistance of his skin against the blade. It wouldn’t cut, not easily. That was the point. He exhaled through his nose, slow...

O, what’s distilled is never gone— just sleeping in the clay, where every drop is dawn undone, and every dawn, decay. The stills exhale their vapored ghosts, the beakers humold tunes, while silver slips through brittle hosts  to kiss the crescent moons.  The mortar cracks...