A shark swims into the bay, swirls, and then rises with the ugly grin of millennia. A match flame to a cigar, years later a campfire, and long after a house on fire. Love—to forget language and act on instinct, its indestructible form. —Something written on a piece of paper after an astonishing event. That paper found a long time later. I am, I am, she said, licking a grape Popsicle in July. Make it last, he said right after. It seemed as though she had leapt toward her own cremation. A few books shining like the wood of trees. —Ones that I’ve climbed or held. Copyright © 2014 by Mark Irwin. Used with permission of the author. |
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