A journal of narrative writing.

These shadows I grow in my good arm cracked the ceiling, cross--. In the movie gunners tracking the screen freeze where its light is brightest then fire. The plaster can't escape --these shadows as every branch will sweep steady the incoming sky then squeeze :each leaf lit, without a sound the sun crashing into walls, the floor --these leaves can't miss, the sun dead and the shadow I grow in the dark carries up a small bird in its throat caught in the crossfire where just offshore those planes are lost and can't turn back as sometimes a key --I'm not the one! I'm not but the lock seals the way stone and the key louder than feathers louder than waiting, than the wings left open on the ceiling on the turn that once was safe.