The Atlantic

For the man getting home late to the line. He calls calling with a miniaturist’s awareness (cold to touch), though somewhere still on fire. He couldn’t write to save the monsoon in his eye. Twinkling cities in competing moats. Louchely entering together the lesser gulf as it hammers down like fibers

in a cut card mill before the shower.

Meniscus augur & hour of errors as the mercury rag spills its rings from his last good pore, his teeth shaped in greenhouse suet or little expectant pots of orchid balm in snow. Once showed the erection tricks in his spam, the gulf's hourglass of vertebrae returned to sand, the script. Running just running after the warm.

We gnawed our brackets straight through the bee man’s boy.

From The Atlantic via this RSS feed