Scraps

You came sewn together with the strings I picked from shirt seams and loose buttons.

There will always be deer in fields.

Saturday morning, watching the sky paint itself.

Not a fracture, but a shattering. Prince Rupert’s Drop.

Descansos.

When the ringing in your ears shifts and everything sounds like soft singing.

A flare over the coast. It’s 3am and everyone is watching.

Like crosses in the curve of a mountain road.

Long. Long. Short. Long. Train dreams.

Spam & Madagascar.

Crossing train trestles.

Tree rings of hearts.

When the bleed-through is more beautiful than the front.

There are two three people dead in my contacts list.

Flashes of roadkill in the headlights, the ribs like piano keys.

Sometimes we run into each other down by the river when our bodies become dislodged. Two drowned girls story.

The O-six wolf.

Being afraid of your own blood.

The girl who couldn’t go to school.

A bus driver that likes Emily Dickinson.

Responses to the complaints of the details of the reunion.

At the bagel shop, the boy who tried to help.

Blood on the roof of the crushed truck.

Tattoos and motorcycles.

The kid who can’t cut the head off properly.

Shirts with the tags still on them falling out of the sky, floating through the clouds.

The man who told me I had a future in grape-stomping passed away.

Story about the girl searching for the man in the picture on the wall.

Renny is a disagreeable introvert. Huckleberry is an agreeable extrovert.

Remember the night you hated the arcade? All the quarters I’d found for nothing; under the couch, in the car crevices, looking in lost spaces.

Mount Erebus – fire in ice.

Crumbling eucalyptus leaves in my hands.

My body type is Roxanne from A Goofy Movie.

The elderly woman who falls. Her husband tries to help her up and falls, too. Both found in the snow the next day.

He signed the retirement papers and slit his wrists. My father doesn’t stop crying over the phone.

The tiger seizing at the circus.

2020: The Night of the Great Thirst

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