The steps walk dry,cloudy eyes,the bones vibratein the echoless wind. Some voices dance in hollow alleysother dreams die in the dim light. Hunger drags the skin.The rain caresses without a name.The cold writes on the flesha poem that no one reads. They...

I have always been one who delves,unmoved by books gathered on shelves,no longer willing to still pretend—I prefer each raw beginning to its end. So I set off once more this night,armed with pen and paper for the write,into this...