The heart is a broken record, a botched detour, a scallywag, a scab. Mourning does not rescue or provide an exit. The slender apple
Controlled Burn I’ve seen park workers chivvy the flames as if herding a flock of beasts that half remember their wild past, and if
Siletz River, 1948 My dad thinks the river is his, or he is the river’s. He ferries us upstream on the tide most weekends
like water—what it was—to enter—unprepared—the tide moves left—there is nothing to bring to it—I could not gather your things—some things broke instead—a phone crushed