Letter to Gabriel Written in the Margins of Murder Ballads
Here is a story in the worst way. I have no business being anywhere in it. It comes between me and the life I have coming. — Gary Lutz
Blood of my abyss, illegible voice, was the morning kind? The cold dawns here, steaming through. I imagine you in a field across the river, floodplain attic, lichen brailed thin on the pump-house door. You are dead in the gallows and not dead, the rope cannot claim you. It is another century. Things are not better or worse.
(Continue to Page 2)