
Vajra Bell
Autumn comes, leaves blanket the neighbor’s driveway in bright yellow, same color as the dry straw grass that hairs the hillside seen in bleary morning eye. Dusty, trees drop their deadweight, birds recline in baking heat screech in protest, I sit by the little Aztec pot awaiting a flash from the blue, a bolt from beyond, a strike from the novel outside. I have imposed … Continue reading Vajra Bell