by Tiffany Belieu Rainfall of tires on asphalt. Subconsciously,a count begins, un-mourned graveson the side of the highway. Guts the consequence of quickness.Creatures who leapwithout looking, spindly leg blown glass fragile, mar the pristinemourning gown of our drive time.Tragedy is an unfolded map in lap en route to an open casket.Lilies, a dozen ghost brides trumpetingmournfully from the backseat. In Read More