7" x 4 1/4"
27 pgs


The chime of an ice cream truck
materializes. A moth ticks obliquely
against a darkening screen.

(This could be any world.
This could be any nerve.

is the crucially useless circus
in which I rehearse the bruise
I miss you.

There will always be
a hand beyond

fire’s immediacy
sharpest in frost.