T.S. had said that April was the cruelest month. J.B. Miter had always remembered that line, although with all that birthed itself during those thirty days, he had hardly understood why. But now, he thought, he was beginning to understand.

The moon bulges with meticulous sick amber fire while first night’s chest heaves and sputters free infantine monstrosity from plague-wormed hovels, din mold choked grottos, and stale metal-cast labyrinth catacombs.

On the balcony the rain felt gentle on my face and across the street in a window I noticed two figures embraced. The clouds had not yet passed above me and the night was still as dreadful as it had ever been.

The mother was happy, though. She was happy because she could make him some soup and then she could feed it to him in bed.