Poetry
halloween ritual by Lip Manegio
& listen, i’ll admit, i / wanted / the stigmata, the gentle puncture.
& listen, i’ll admit, i / wanted / the stigmata, the gentle puncture.
Poor Mr. Hatch, the maintenance and groundskeeping man. What luck, the apocalypse happened on mowing day, and he moved even slower than zombies.
The ridge had taken on a film as though color had been pulled out of the air and pressed to the ground.
Was there comfort in that work, Frank wondered? Torment? Exactly what was the inheritance he had received from this stranger?
I imagined he liked me, but the truth is I have no idea. Our friendship was born of necessity rather than mutual admiration.