Someone would be able to photograph this scene and smuggle all it whispers beyond the high walls of the quiet, stony garden where I
I find your shadow in the shop rooftop again, our silhouettes snow-angeled on ash. In this city, God’s heatwave shrouds windows and exiles in
Sunlight and tree limbs sway across the back fence, An Indonesian shadow play. The villain is my aloe vera In the large clay pot.