"How many backfiring engines, bouts of desert flu
until he doesn’t jump, thinking Molotav
Cocktails and roadside bombs will blow?"
"The moon is rising over the Gate, scaling the wall
like a commando, the air strangely cinnamon."
THE WALLS ARE FOUR FEET THICK
“The old house is empty now, save for the ghosts
of green-eyed deer who nightly graze the yard”
A reading of "The Walls are Four Feet Thick" by Annie Woodford.
Image by: Judd McCullum.