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.