SPELL Bradley Strahan
It's always far mountains, cities of jade and silver, towers half hidden on a misty ridge that draw the cracked lodestone of desire. We're always leaving for incense islands, places of green water that speak of sun and brown lips tasting of salt and mango. In crowded stations magnet-eyes burn in stranger's faces. Within its cage of bone the wingless moth strains toward a distant fire
The Wayne Literary Review: Escapism
106
