Your voice, too fast, chattering, clattering against my Self, breaking into my thoughts, though I ... [+]
Originally published in "The Futurist's Mistress" by Mayapple Press, 2006
The gray field of the rain had risen. She slept on the worn patchwork quilt of the sky.When she woke up, she dreamt that her house was flying,that a witch rode by— past the clouds, on a bicycle. Where was the air going?The wind poured out from her eyes.