No Quarter
fields of cotton . . .we sing "Amazing Grace"with the larksPine shadows rest on the flowering dogwood. Steadfast, we've marched to this place. The Southern Cross and Old Glory wave—colors…
T Minus 10
Spaceman, always looking up, a compass with no needle, lost it shooting up. Always shy half-a-moon, he's off to Heaven to file a complaint—too many burned-out stars, more every day;…
