Your heart is like an island, like a bomb chambered for containment and you should handle my heart like a rare species of flower that grows only here, like a thing that can destroy.
There must’ve been some incident, something to push both Dickinson and Proust into isolation, the horse thought as a student, but now he thinks time and immortality require one’s full attention.
Confusion is the foreigner’s advantage. Natives tamp the nuance in their sounds. Stranger seeking refuge pockets vowels, picks gesture, learns body, gets caught up on the cobble
to practice intense study. to research. to seek again. to require confirmation, a proof. to believe. to believe in knowing because it can be said again and again. the proving of a theorem. now the corollary: to have learned
Surely you stay my certain own, you stay obtuse. Surely your kisses were little poisons gripping tight my lips, my arms, mapping their way across my unsure body. Surely, this fission
in the selfie he is currently texting to “Lula Mae,” the man next to me on flight 4853 to Columbia, dressed in a black turtleneck and a thick double chain,
Two boys, pink in their manhood, lean over a balcony, full of teeth. Below: a brown man, skin tired of holding his bones. Work falls in shadows around his feet. The Puget Sound is bluer than any dream or sky. The boys loom, pink.
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