Beads
Prune Juice Journal, Issue 49
boys in a camp, running on dusty ground—a ball made of 25 plastic bags
the news—the girl switches the channel to Chopin’s Berceuse
they have been sending drones—only half of the house remained, its wires protruding from the walls
the boy, dizzy, asks his mother if it’s time for strawberries—soon
spiders—the woman shies away from touching the cocoons as she clears the furniture out from the shed
naming a crater after their commander’s late wife—the Artemis crew falls into each other’s arms
at a concert—a man and a woman in the dark beneath a roof of wooden ribs, waiting for the candles to be lit
counting
the stitches again . . .
some hills
must be
green
pi & anne 