Days like this I feel like a Russian doll: a body carved inside a body.
The daughter’s memory is a cove, where unexpected fragments of a school play wash up against a burnt tabletop.
My merman came to shore for a quick kiss and a breath of fresh air, swam back to his ocean lair, murky depths, seaweed tangled in his hair.
Everything grows in its own way, which can’t be justified or condemned. I danced while I could, then I couldn’t...
Gulls, redacted from flight, from piping new trajectories (for a second), are close by, unseen—humanity’s cue: respect the quite before the storm.
