So, if I were to cup your alibi in my hands, softly as moth- dust & to slip its squirming, body below my tongue, where would these envelopes end up? Uruguay? Denton? Djibouti?
Darling, we’ve crept through the bluegrass & we’ve slipped in the waste slurry, we dug breakfast out of dumpsters & we stole fourteen-hundred dollars from the Grace Street Laundromat. I think it’s time we made a child, the way we make starlight out of a bent & pin-pocked coke can.
