More on: Matthew Tuckner

Is a spoon still a spoon, ——————————bent by two hands to look more ——————————————————————–—like a moon? Some nights, I take a walk down to the cul-de-sac, lay myself on the gravel, ————–—play a different kind of dead. It sounds like a fiddle. The boy calls me sylvan, ——————————eagle-boned & I know what he means. He…