Visions of Never Being Heard from Again
I stopped by to see you but you were not home marshland the pure vision my ancient lives all risen up and rising shudder in my bed to come up against a living religion; they get offended so easily; blow up your hundred-foot Buddha no problem. Entire mountainside. Presumably it's an improvement on whatever came before on what was here before ancestral crypt your daddy built; a grassy hill; a patchwork quilt; inadequately warming.
Copyright © 2010 by Rebecca Wolff. Used with permission of the author.