Philip Graham

I wake to see a figure of dew on the ceiling. And as the morning begins its slow burn I lie waiting for its form to race into mist, but instead a first drop falls: a tiny grape wrenched from the vine. It lands on my lips and I taste your [...]

Only after handprints appeared on the walls did I realize I walk in my sleep. No doubt these were my own form of bread crumbs through the forest, and so I memorized their positions in the halls, side rooms—wherever they raised their palms. Then e [...]