The body jackknifes—buckles like a dark road and each thought unfolds: a relaxing piece of crumpled foil. The trees are fastidious detectives late for
I’m in the motel outside of town, slouched in the faded green armchair, thumbing the Gideon Bible, and, the TV muted, ignoring the weather
She flashed across his universe, all swing skirt and sandals and red hair and convertible— where she slung her purse into the back seat