Anita I read her read her with rhythm she wavered in her sundress shifting patterns winded rhythm we’re already flagging Anita we’ve read ourselves blind and the flags made no sense in their ceaseless shifting owing nothing against the wind its rhythm a lazy waltz through your curls little autumn flags meltwater between your sundress shoulders we read our scars and weren’t afraid Anita for they fell in common rhythm autumn harmony owing nothing against our sins Anita

and i believe in my heart of hearts that I can do it just as well as you

The hardest thing is to remain unafraid beneath the burden. You’ll agree that the ones who aren’t afraid can’t see the burden, the wall, or hear the ocean’s roar when they wake up in the morning, right outside their bedroom doors. Am I the only one who sees it marching afire by night?

A hungry cat paws dumbly at a scrap of paper, a receipt. Merwoww, it says. The cat cocks its head, confused, and pads off.

Cordova, you tart. Your body is the same, only younger. Your brain is gray, only bolder, closer to black than white, better to see your synapses crackling at twilight as you dream. You play passable violin. I hate violin.

Gray-green dock underside: noted.


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