I was a kid when we hit Mile-High suburbs, carcasses of Winnebagos strung out behind us on the plains, the mile-long gas lines coming
Snap off small pieces unless you already have some thrown together in a drawer where melancholy sunshine and summer flowers resist the drama of
becomes the only boat. Lays her body flat, bellying black water that sucks below the dock. Her chest a prow, her face the fixed