FENCE

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Carolina Wren

do i want to go to prague? maybe.

it is always a matter of lunch with clotheslines.

these small things we need.

Night, Open Field

I’ve hit the wagon again, that time,
overestimated. Breathing egret. The peace
of coral, the color, feeds artist borrowers,
the recent manmade smoke and mirrors

Critique of the Metaphysics of Bees

Bees are tactile spots of disbelief in a field of air. The idea of them is almost exhilarating. Amid the dogwoods of nearby suburbs, banks in acute distress are closed. Phenomena in the wake of those who are cold become pellucid. The principle of a held breath is no more a god than a person altered by existence.

Bill

Bill said: In the evening, the sky gets all red and soft behind the fence near the crapyard on Last Street where Lorraine’s mother flew. I wanted to give it the twice-over, but Lou wouldn’t take me. Lou is a prick.

The Man On the Stairs

It was a tiny sound but it woke me up because it was a human sound. I held my breath and it happened again, then again; it was footsteps on the stairs. I tried to whisper, There’s someone coming up the stairs, but my breath was cowering, I couldn’t shape it.