Kate Schapira
Dear Meg: a permutation
Aloha to your whale pants coming at it from another direction. I lined the bread pan with oil and flour. Those easy openings, the senses, dilate the cold dirt for bulbs. Bike-seat springs sound, narrowed by the bay. With coffee in one lobe and stout in the other like sashweights I rocked before your housemate’s newspring eyes. Those easy predators, the senses, dig in the cold dirt for bulbs. Sunbeam travel has little to do with windows of opportunity. The stable smell of coffee over onions, riches: those cold predators, the senses, dig ease out of the dirt like a bulb. Salt counters sugar under wraps, under winter. Winter antics give way to time. Fingers, like bulbs, dig in the easy dirt of the senses, but wheat grows from seed in another climate. To never see someone again: cold fingers the senses, digs bulbs in and out of their sockets.
Dream of a biographical movie
The white outposts looked like nuns, a particular strain. As for the day, it came, still dropping, syrupy in light.
Their father was twenty years on the ocean, a gospel of marines. An old woman, a cul-de-sac: he sprang for the best bet. Vacated default like a bat out of hell.
Sand castles covered in glue represented a martian surface. He ballooned in his space suit, filling his faceplate, shouting into his radio, “I’m the handsomest man in the world!”
Now the neighborhood, like the two tongs of a nutcracker, comes together. Vans pull up, wavering the panes.
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