among the torn silks of phrase

music: hospice, the antlers
mood: leeks

i was watching the baby when it started to happen.

her hair stood up like filaments, straight in the web of sunlight so she looked weightless & irresilient as a creature from far away. her palms were flushed pink and she cupped a handful of moist goldfish that flew to the floor when she choked, airless. everyone turned. we were outside the hospital, and the bus driver kicked his foot on the brakes. walked back through the seats, stepping on the crackers so that they turned to dust. she's alright, alright, alright but this look i've only seen this look on the crowd's face once before, when we pulled into the train station & i was only seven.

later, i walked home but ended up somewhere else.

*

fact: when they wired the houses in los alamos
they used 15,000 tons of borrowed silver bouillon.

*

my sweet friend & i dream about living this summer as if it were without relent. we will fill the sea with hurricane tents, and hang bouquets of cameras from the doorknobs of our bedrooms. like this. or, the sound of the stories that we tell. soon, i will be serving coffee in the victorian house across from the gardens, and teaching myself how to draw peonies from the hiss of steamed milk. we will capture everything. i will wish for a rowboat the colour of maples.

*

dearest, you inhabit places as a landscape.