Easter was Sunday. The dog is splitting open from chunks having been cut out of her and then inexpertly re-sewn. There’s a stew of news. All bad. This is what Eliot said, for Good Friday: After the torchlight red on sweaty faces After the frosty silence in the gardens After the agony in stony placesContinue reading “Suspension of Disbelief”
Anastasia M. Coles 