Oh, my fingers would like / to cut down the stars.
a real bird perched on a branch of a glass tree
Love, we are not / brave. We are bodies.
A mime fell to the floor and pretended he was dead.
I dreamed I had died / and didn’t tell anybody.
So many creatures slide from / our gaze, little flames of meeting.
Clouds are mostly gossip
Hilary Plum on Ghayath Almadhoun’s Adrenalin
knowing that the mask is more an image
by Jake Uitti | Contributing Writer