We pull cords across the lumps of our mattress and strap it—encased in plastic—to the roof of our car. Neither of us could push
Would infant-racket, sun-glare, angry sky build or bury a life? We met late in the day, a hundred seconds to midnight on the doomsday
shaking cottonwoods, this whisper and shimmer of leaves? Is it tonight’s full moon, the quicksilver of clouds, the sky’s star-thick seas? By day, I