Loudly and to nothing
It springs from the tip of me,
A congestion of ruby leaves and lips and sad rusty suns.
The coolness inches on the glands of the air.
How soon and regularly it visits with its subterfuge of
In Memoriam:: George A. Romero - It’s a pretty good bet that I’m going to spend the entire day thinking about GEORGE A. ROMERO and the better part of the evening watching his remarkable, g...
2 days ago