Friends: I apologize for addressing you all at once like this, and for not calling or writing a letter. Remember, talking: that’s what the bars are for. If you don’t hear from me it is because of a conversation I am having either with myself or some streetlamp of a man, posted in his ways every night. I have moved; you may guess where and how, and tell me what life you would have me lead. Some follow their hearts; I follow the moon. Allow me my phases and you will have your tides. I write tonight not to tell you of a new city but to share what the new city would say of me, and seeing as I do not speak the language of cities, I send this image as proof that part of me is yet alive: a smile, a dress, the light rising off the back of a hand covering my eyes.
Published in Cider Press Review, Volume 16, Issue 3.
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