AllARTsupported

Soon it was clear that the moon was a horse's skull, and the air, a dark apple. The gearshift shudder of a heavy-laden truck fades, all the while, the sustained drone of bees; past their prime and sluggish, their wings cannot be stilled. A dull glint behind the eyes of a yoked pair of oxen, standing at a crossroad between myself and the fields that bake in the August of a Spanish sun, waiting for the hammer and anvil to sing, for the echoing refrain of rifle shots beyond a stand of distant trees shimmering from spent cartridges in the waning afternoon of your exquisitely curved spine.