a hot afternoon reading

Henri Cole whose

1978 photograph is something

i’m sighing over no matter

that he has no

interest in my

underpinnings

 

it’s a season of

push and want and

limbs falling

through the dead

streets

i wrote once some

letter to a

fiction, saying

oh your

white soft

tshirt, your

careless hair let’s

eat plums or

get drunk and

let the quiet

build up some

force between

us–

 

i call my own

name in bed

at night, drive

with the windows

down, eating

strawberries

 

the way back to

a lost town is

non-fiction

only.