• Vol. 09
  • Chapter 01


My shadow is that of a man, my ribs those of a boat,
the low bed is like that of my childhood, only wider.
The wall is full of candlelight, waxy ripples of pond,
and the cat, full and milky, shies from our resolution
– she thinks she knows, sees not my mushroom mind,
acidic, full of spores and layers and a showy softness.
You tease your spoon round and round, tense as wick,
and here, I rest a palm on your spine, take on your fire.
I know heat is no match for me, nor are flood or fog.
Let me take the weight, become a meeting of elements:
it is something to be good at, now I am big and old,
never to be artist or writer, never to run with the circus.
By morning, this world will be gone and it will be us,
and them, when they arrive, tiny and pink and yelling.