Like someone starts with a swarm of arrogant notions clenched solid at a single point on the earth, near a river or a road: Maybe the consciousness stream from the shadow who smokes his job through another thin roll? Could be the coral vine screeding up the fissured side of a brick wall over the nest of a loggerhead? What about the wolves haunting just outside of the stripped town core, in harsh chorus, famished? Lovers stumbling, gauzed in your bourbon mist? Or another strange flock that, from one in the long grass, shatters to dozens across the sky – — CHRIS YURKOSKI
Chris Yurkoski is a writer of poetry (and occasionally book reviews and short fiction) living in Ottawa, Ontario, Canada. He pays the bills by analyzing economic development and socio-economic related issues for the Canadian federal government. He has spent much of the pandemic period biking, investing in wine and waiting.