As We Age
As we age, each little grunt at a time,
The relic of faith kept crossing the Black
Atlantic, the vined bodies that come with this
Crossing, weigh as anchor, immutable
Suns, and their last shadows, setting behind
Us. And . . .
Brick, a literary journal
Brick
PO Box 609, Stn P
Toronto, ON M5S 2Y4
Canada
You tell yourself all kinds of lies to get through the day. — Chris Ware