Simone, I saw you throw your phone into the river. I saw you send the mallard down to get it. You know it died in the mud and the only blister sound was quicker than a cork popping cava.
In The women are armed with brochures but I don’t want to walk down that street, to where the post box waits for me with its lips baby bell split, inviting wanting.
He made up reasons for her to leave his sofa side; bowls of tomatoes elbow avalanched off the counter, cookery books Kandinsky splat with perfume. With the curtains closed
Formal feeling ‘The fact is, after grief there is no formal feeling,’ she writes to her aunt in Tolenta who keeps geraniums because Ginsberg chatted to her about reincarnation
Aggravate and response She sent bad karma out like racer pigeons, like dominoes, like cigarette ash in the eye of a cat. The maybe of a beginning is an undersheet