The Dream Come True Is Still In the Planning StagesCate Peebles
The mini-series about Rome is too long. The beer is too short. A wasp on the porch only wants to get in but does not, so perishes as best he can by battering his face into the window more gruesomely than Hadrian hammering a barbarian’s skull, all its yolk running through his fingers, thick with forgetting. This unglued evening I bore through the screen door, blurred vision upon mesh partition onto the overgrown lawn at the twin sycamores and, not between them, my absent hammock. The thief, run off, now cradled somewhere all his own with The Rise and Fall of Rising and Falling spliced above his eyes. Something heavy enough to pin them shut before the wind picks up. However, my hammock was only pretend, strung from invisible netting like the rest of me, which makes us no less susceptible to thievery. And in its place, all the thief has left me is everything, everywhere.
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