Published in Indicia Literary Journal, Volume 4.1, Winter/Spring 2020The butterhung wind licks summer skin like sugar dog tongues,golden as the space your belly laugh oncecarved out of this very room. Now I rent it out at storage rates. Meanwhile, a man jumps off a bridge. he is on fire.These days you look like a gravethat something is trying to crawl out of,and I am addicted to the darknessbetween worlds.So here I am,back to pick my teeth with perfect bonesnestled among the corporeal undercarriages of my mother’sparrot tulips.I buried you,yet here you are.