Late August
Let me try again. It is cold. It is August. It is the last day for swimming so you run your hands up against me in the surf, and I laugh through a mouthful of salt, the stretch of your shoulders shining, wet with sunlight, aching my eyelids shut. The generous spill of […]
For The Record
you have grown too big. too full of images like water in fist, like sand between fingers, unreliable as ink on page. for the record, there will only ever again be vague flashes, just the cucumber slipping out the end of your sandwich pieces of gravel in your knees trampoline-burn the s
