She calls it lunatic light and perhaps she’s right.There is nothingbut chance, a slim guide of sliced lightpointing for a moment at a womanseen from outside through the window,using her wrist to wipe her foreheadover the steaming pots, the
Day: January 3, 2025
A woman sits on the front porch – delicateseaweed hair, conch shell eyes, lips breachingwhales. She eats old notebooks, broken zipdrives, locks of hair that taste of salt and rose petals. The dog walks through her, the birdsnever notice.
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