In the autumn,

we fling open the windows

and commune with the stars from your bedside.

Blood unspools as one red thread,

cross-stitched on your breast,

and there’s promises

and salt.

You are so immense

that midnight pools betwixt your hips

and the moon rides your tongue like the sea,

and there are secrets,

warm and wet

and frantic in my thigh.

Beneath, the sheets turn into strips

of alabaster.

To the west, there is a silk mist

that drowns the distant mountains,

and when it comes,

you will drift from my fading arms

to love others.

But for now,

my bones are weightless

in the candlelight,

my mouth fizzing like a plum.

When you go, love,

I will be sleeping.

My name will be quiet in the hearth.  




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Before the dawn starts stirring far away, unravelling young clouds and lilac-gold, I will sit with you awhile.
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July 1964

She holds a flower, listening only to the small petals. They’ve all come outside to see the purple.
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Angel or no angel, the only thing that truly matters is backing up to that loading dock in St. Louis on time. And maybe this one story.


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