Out for a walk through the neighborhood, I notice a piece of paper in the grass by the sidewalk. Picking it up, I see that it is a page from a book, the edges burned. I look around. The house on the corner has a collapsed roof, blackened windows, soot stains streaking the yellow brick and white wood trim. Again, I look at the page in my hand, the title barely readable along the top, “If The Bomb Gets Out Of Hand.”
cloaked
in morning fog . . .
secrets untold
cloaked
in morning fog . . .
secrets untold
