Spring '11 TOC
a cascade of orange breath around her breast.
my fingers are exhausted from so much touching you.
but they'll never wear out. I swear.
an American flower petals through concrete at their feet, causing him to remark.
(something sweet about life's endurance)
the weekend passes.
she drinks cups of tea by herself and holds a pillow instead of his body.
It almost works.
in a California park he sits on a tree stump and pockets a snail shell he finds in winter grass.
something about the nearness of water cuts through distances.
on the same day but at different hours they take new steps in the direction of afternoon.
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