Laura Mullen

The words come slowly, arrive slowly, changed by travel; some are missing, get here later, in no particular order, "love." "You." It's the so-called Happy Hour. This hazy sunlight is softened and faded and what it touches it softens and fades also. [...]

You thought you could put the attic up there with nothing Underneath it. Now you're having to learn by heart, The hard way, floors and walls. From the cellar come sounds You could only have made up, but their timing surprises you: The silences. .â [...]

The way they begin again In the air is obscene: The way they keep starting over— Reaching for, reaching for— Adding on another version,    And then another. Each one equally true in time, Or so it would appear: all of them    True in the en [...]