He’s losing the lot all over again. New routines do not exist. It is mature. Everything chiseled into stone gets digitized, perhaps. Logarithms asexually inhabit the whole thing—nonplussed. The unnamable becomes ineffable as It’s damaged. We are the fabric, stitched together in storms to be torn asunder, too fast and weak for immortality. At one’s private end being embraces Its self, tumbling into the nakedness of a future dreamed. The babe is gone, but the dog worries the child into hiding somewhere in the street.
Who among us hasn’t wanted to kill the sweetest thing?
At nineteen my former student jacks a car with a toy gun. Give me the keys! he says, but he carries her groceries in, unlocks her door—can’t leave her alone in the cold, she looks so scared. Not even an hour later he’s in handcuffs. He’ll get fifteen. Ten if they go easy, a soft judge. […]
When you’re back, look to your left there’s a great deal of it spread thin though I’d like to scoop & saver, too, slather on the skin I had at seventeen. Bone dust setting spray keeps your ears pulled back keeps you younger than you need a certain charm […]
after reading Anna Swir 1. 1939 and my mother is not the town beauty my mother is an orange flower the wind can move only so much. Iron in hand she curls the butcher’s wife’s hair. Powerful gypsies come in and out whispering secrets their eyes like bats their skirts sweeping the floor of the […]