The roads are furrows in the green, troughs carved through to Florence from the beach. The heat grows as we go along. Soon the
Let’s sit on the porch in the late afternoon sun— that untarnishable golden glow—and spit sunflower hulls into an old flower pot. The
Even the dry seed husks are silent. There is no sound meaning the air has stopped, is somewhere else—Scituate, Poughkeepsie. Why did it stop