Poetry

The woman from New York told me that in New York you could be nothing too special because there were so many clever people genuises around every corner you were never quite as

estuary her breath, a full length for every bay, the raft of lashed boards and fabric drag skirting through eelgrass a thin towel, one lung pressed on volume flounders. the fluke muddied under

Dear M, “The secret name is the gesture that restores the creature to the unexpressed.”– from Profanations by Giorgio Agamben I am writing you as early as now, hoping this letter finds you

It comes upon me to clean my bedroom, to put away the clothes on the headboard, the lingerie on the dresser, and last night’s shoes lying underneath my small table. It is