My feet are cold. They remind me of that one week in Iowa. I look at my feet. I don’t like to think about that week in Iowa. It was not a good week in Iowa. I keep looking at my feet. They are covered in cotton—frayed and tubed. I can feel every inch of me forgetting...
Photo by Efy96001 – Own work, CC BY-SA 3.0 golden locks rested on Elnora’s shoulders / how wild wind could bring a blue linen skirt to life / the fiddle Edward played cried out to her / carried over prairies / until its voice turned raspy / close-cut sleeves...
