Author: James Hoch

We are building a house small in the woods,  refuge from disquietor vague boredom. It must weather distance,the hurt of proximity. We do not mean to,though we are so good  at breaking, scavenging old bone and feather, stalks of  wildflowers outlasting the hour of their heads.  You are boss, and look boss, hammer and spackle knife and blue hair,…