[One small door, his question]Boyer Rickel
One small door, his question opened onto the patio. His voice the weight of morning on patio stones; the light through trees decanted, as a thought might into a system of sounds. I didn’t know what to say, just an image. The pale blue-green rosettes—succulents, like bruised fists—clinging to the hill on the road to that seaside town whose name neither of us could pronounce. Perhaps I’d heard the question wrong. Perhaps he didn’t expect my departure.
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