3 sheets.


“evening skews. your girlfriend’s drunk, at the other side of the street. why is she down there? who is she speaking to? you are standing at the bottom of her walk. you see her standing with two people holding their bikes by the handlebars. she is wearing a summer dress. the last sunlight is strafing her dress through the trees. she is gesticulating. her hair is long. you know you cannot communicate with them. your voice would not carry. you wonder whether this evening will turn, right itself, in the time between when she leaves these two people and when you climb together to the third-floor apartment, to all the plants and open windows. perhaps you will find each-other’s matching shapes and forces. perhaps she will begin speaking at precisely the volume that makes you feel like co-conspirators, lovers, and not simply like people in a room together, declaiming. perhaps the faded blue sky will go rose, stars fainting through. perhaps there will be an accident, something in the way your faces turn and glimpse each-other; it will illuminate the instant and slip between you, connective tissue. or perhaps she will remain the woman she is at the end of the street, too far to call to, freer in the afar, and the nighttime church bells will sound sad.”

wrong weekend