I’m petting eight tiny horses, vinegar-scented, at the pop-up estate sale. Some turn noses down, some up. Some twist their blue necks
The name of the bloodletting capture was The Battle of Raisin River – an immense chapter of fire, a fierce British counterattack that left no truce – only flaming houses, hundreds massacred, captured or maimed.
I am revising the catalog when the bird meets the glass of my living room window.
Everything stopped—cop’s car/citizen’s car/loud music playing through a cracked window/the joint flicked into a strip of muddy water along the curb.
“I saw the angel in the marble, and carved, until I set him free.”
“You don’t sing much, do you, son?” my father asks, sitting in his chair in the living room.
The summer before high school our language would change when the dusk drifted into our blood.
I intended to live one significant moment after another, beginning with that tiny bottle of Dior cologne in the cramped bathroom of my Air France flight.
A soon as I spot Dad outside my kitchen window I put the kettle on. He is holding his favourite pair of secateurs, their curved beak of black weighted, ready.
Go to the end of your street, cross the Rickmansworth Road and take the footbridge over the Colne, where reflections glimmer through the fringe of trees.
I am a fox who is counsellor to a tree. Because unlike other foxes, I reach out. Spread the love and understanding.
Our father takes us out past the breakers, into the swells. We can’t touch the bottom, but he can.
In the barren cold camp, you wear a dusty cape and top hat, wave my cane as if it were a wand and tell me your dream-stories, one after the next, your words spun and tossed like tethers into the air.
Ignis, the flaming wreckage, bubbling rubber, liquified cloth, her skin charred and blistering, acrid smoke, the tiny thunders of survival’s kicks
I tell you I’ve only ever shown it to a girl who I met on a tour bus in Moscow, where I was traveling with my parents. She had bad acne, and she really liked Duran Duran.