where men rest their heads in their hands—as these two on this bench, heads in hands as if each neck has dragged its stone from town to town for so long it says no more—no one told me I’d be the one to bear the gross tare of this thick bone, those teeth, the meat in there, those sails for ears, I’m weak with it, done with it, give it to the hands: I quit.
Gerald Fleming | Contents Mudlark No. 56 (2015)