On the wax museum tour of their marriage, every room sports its bullet hole or fist-sized gouge, while they, veterans of each other, arms
A windshielded fist of inertia, the treacherous arc of nowdead bird, all are omens: light goes where flesh can’t follow. Glass, a border like
I love you because your voice is that vibration, a frequency incubating in a satellite, bolting like lightning into the central chip of my