“We pass it every year, the way the parade passes. Then we arrive home with the last notes of the song, evidence against our staying power, our packaging, upon return, found intact.”
“At the top of the platform I turned left. The flat surface of the hemispheric bubble sprawled below. In my memory, the red chairs looked like rock candy.”
“I watch what hovers like genie smoke – the grief –/near ancient tombs of white marble with grey veins,/or gravestones on a desert hill,/images that filter vaguely out of the words we use to mourn./Are you awake?”
