HEL
the sunlight makes long shadows of the trees
hands that reach across the road
there is that sickening moment
the fall of a thousand guts
the soft crunch of breaking bones
and a high pitched yelp
that merges into the screech of the truck’s brake rotor
the smell of iron
burnt rubber
the length of those hands reaching out to him
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New Muses for a Posthuman Age
Late last year I wrote a 10 sonnet sequence entitled New Muses for a Posthuman Age, the idea being to update the goddesses and answer...
