Photo Source: PxHere Necropol We sleep together under the cold dark sun of night her father between bodies keeps us from touching moving together in sleep the children are lost in the snowdrift we have searched for them all day now the warmth of the campfire dies the cold of the deep north surrounds us yet we cannot touch for shelter or warmth The Rite The old monk sits shirtless in the chair beside me on the redeye flight from Newark to Pittsburgh. His torso is covered with...