[To voice something that doesn’t end…]

To voice something that doesn’t end in a smile is odd. The spirit circles the body, doctors can’t see it, sensors can’t detect it. The children are very beautiful. Such outsized joy in the central solarium an instant before the fires, the fatality that comes right before a long weekend. Ice cream scoops. The children are beautiful. Fruit baskets full of vegetables, the light in the market, the homosexual tendencies I like about you, those manic feelings that force me to believe. Flies that attract dead chickens. Parasols that injure. I run right up to the cliff when I say hi and white chocolate like snow. Blood blood blood blood. Princess – sweet princess. The toothpaste squirms onto the brush like a snail, it’s late. The pajamas thrown over the bed, all the obscene love obscene word all becoming perfect. Each time the children are even more beautiful. Love poems, rearview mirrors nicked from gods’ fancy cars and sold on the black market as the past. A breath, that small ghost that slips out of me.