by Ignatius Valentine Aloysius Ricardo Gomez Angel That fringe hour welcoming sunlight so bright is the quietest of fall’s weekend. A murmur slips by now and then, worshipping quieted machines that would otherwise be sopranos’ shrill sounds or flutes drilling through the genesis of night- buried thrums, while I’d slept with fingers bent tight and hands beating away my ghosts. Now within the walls something drops with a scrape and thud, so I turn my head, listening, curious, d