Mitch on a Kent Road at Night
Underneath the cold dust of night, skin coated in its sharp spit, he’s bobbing headlight first into the centre of the road, chin jutting out like a speedbump. Soon, the rubber will gravel him again—wrap and warp his skin—and slide him slick across the tarmac, beetroot nucleus pulposus.
Greetings from the exit row
Anyone who knows me can tell you that travel is not something I’m fond of. Every term around week six, I start to curse myself for not being a minimalist, the prospect of having to wear the unfoldable free pink cowboy hat I acquired during Chappell Roan night at Bridge to the airport sudden
Cordiform
Tick tick. Some animals need their loves far away from them. With the canned freeze, phone flickering under a blanket, I could almost understand. Pinecones in the boreal forest are right now closing up on their own warmth, Mr. Attenborough tells me, while long ears and pads have become pelt casings