Jack Crawford, Jr.

Death is a black bull

The grey morning comes around my house

The fish slides slow

I run down an empty street

I do not bruise you. I do not

As Ben held th brain in his hands, dripping formaldehyde into the jar, from his fingers, he could feel the eyes of Professor Tyrell on his face and he knew that ...

I am of rhythms. I am of rhythms, ripples,