Anthony Robinson

It was supposed to be January because it’s always January in the folktales, because a hoary landscape gives the icy crunch, the frozen leaf, the piper’s footprints along the road, a mailbox row hemmed in by snow. So much exists just beyond the Sunday clinging to a wet branch, sharp spikes glisten in the Alaskan

It was supposed to be January because it’s always January in the folktales, because a hoary landscape gives the icy crunch, the frozen leaf, the piper’s footprints along the road, a mailbox row hemmed in by snow. So much exists just beyond the Sunday clinging to a wet branch, sharp spikes glisten in the Alaskan