On Thursday, I take a train to a town with a gas station and one stoplight. Wear a black coat and dream all night about wolves skirting the parking lots. My hope is a single bright balloon caught in January
On the Picturesque
On Wednesday, I start writing things down. They are something like a poem, something like a house fire. We have enough food for a week and the pets all make it out. The trees are sumptuous and dramatic and rarely
A House Which is a Kind of Falling
The proliferation of s’s in your words make me jittery, which is to say, there are worse things than this weather. Me, I’ve been hiding objects in my mattress instead of burning them. Tiny glass kittens, dirty dishes. Writing love