The flashes of the explosions are close enough
to touch if you wanted to burn your fingers
on the sky, and the glare rocks our shadows back
against the brick, as if chaos snapped
our pictures in the dark.
photo / 美撒郭
writing / BILL ZAVATSKY
We settle by the edge of the water. Her twenty-four karat hair gleams as the wind sways, trying to grasp a handful of it for himself.
I touched your arm and the flesh fell away
and my hands were no longer empty
And what is the name for the movement we make when
we wake, swiping hand or claw or wing across our face, like trying
to remember a path or a river we’ve only visited in our dreams
pain surpassing itself becomes Exotic
lipstick and always leave it behind
eyes tired from having seen the unchanging earth
You’re only made of moonlight.
It’s a long way to the underworld.