It’s late. A man stands at the front door of a house holding an end-of-the-evening supermarket bouquet. A woman opens the door. She crosses her arms over her chest as the man stutters an apology. The flowers tremble as he hands them slowly to her. She weighs the bouquet in her hands before bringing it up to her face. The man watches her nervously as she inhales, wondering which way the scent will sway her.
It’s late. A man stands at the front door of a house holding an end-of-the-evening supermarket bouquet. A woman opens the door. She looks down at the flowers and makes a little show of being surprised and the man smiles. The woman steps to the side as the man walks into the house. He leans in and kisses her on the cheek; she closes her eyes. It’s an old ritual, but the love and the ritual are the same thing.
It’s late. A man stands at the front door of a house holding an end-of-the-evening supermarket bouquet. A woman opens the door. She looks down at the flowers and smiles weakly. The man drops the bouquet in her hands as he walks into the house. She imagines her hands are a divine scale and she weighs the bouquet against a wound deep inside herself. As she closes the door she looks out, hoping to see someone, anyone, but the street is empty.
It’s late. A man stands at the front door of a house holding an end-of-the-evening supermarket bouquet. No one answers the door. The man turns and walks dejectedly out of the story. Later a car pulls up and a woman gets out. She knocks on the door and a woman who has been crying opens it. This woman looks angry or sad or both. The two go inside to talk. Later the women laugh as they dance to music. What a thing, to cry over a man. There are hundreds of men out there. Thousands. Millions. Billions.
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If the sun moved, curved aspects would resolve thingness differently. To be the shadow itself would be simpler.
Lying there lying there there in the ocean
salt-thinking wave sifting paper squaring sand.
The soprano, forgotten, sang white strips of quartz.
I expanded like ice.
The rock dropped each time and each time the rock dropped the rock rhymed with the sound of rock dropping.
Or contracted like fucking.
Busted tin in loose dirt smells of cut-crumbled stone, of the lie beneath each re-built city.
I contracted like
If the truth is a tempest, let the weathervane squeal.
What is fucking?
She graphed you.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * *
A stone, a stone the most obvious one
It began when beginning was unavoidable and continued until ending
Arm back at that branch sink the branch sink the branch sink that floaty floaty johnny-come-jellyfucker.
In the storm you will let a round boy like a rock be pulled shouting
from the cave of your belly.
Such seaweed-streaked lanterns, such mica-frail feet.
Fate is the thing we say to say the happened thing happened.
If the sun moved, if the water—
The bear with his wings.
Its wings. I swear it is an it.
I swear it has wings. This bear
takes off from the ground
next to the creek
where I see it not only preparing
to hibernate but also crouching,
drinking, lapping up its water
from the creek like a dog or a cat,
the water is flowing down and it’s crisp
and cold and I
am a lone hunter
with a rifle to my shoulder
and the wings stop and the wings stop
and the wings stop
the bear sees me it is a he now
the bears sees me and I see him
we see each other, this bear and I
his wings that were fluttering
my wings that were fluttering
the entire forest is still
I can see the drops of dew on the blue leaves
the sunlight breaks through the leaves
and it’s like white knives shooting down
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