Constellations

Autumn: When I wake up, the light in the apartment is that opaque milk-blue that looks like it ought to be something you can touch. The sun’s rays catch flecks of airborne dust and hold them suspended. I watch as they inch across the floor toward my mattress. My body is heavy. I imagine my limbs weighted down into my bed, leaving an impression in the floor. 

I stretch my hand toward the panel of light, and because the days are cooler now, I feel its warmth on my fingers. I have to get up, but nothing in me wants to move. 

Before: After my brother’s funeral, I sublet my friend’s apartment in the city. When I arrive, it’s empty. The apartment across the hall is being renovated, and everything is coated in thick, white dust. My shoes leave tracks in it, door to window to door. Later, after I clean, the prints are reversed, the dust I track in from the hallway leaving pale smudges on the floor, marking the steps I’ve taken. I keep cleaning them, but the marks just change position. I leave a trail wherever I go.

Something About Love

Autumn: When I wake up, the light in the apartment is that opaque milk-blue that looks like it ought to be something you can touch. The sun’s rays catch flecks of airborne dust and hold them suspended. I watch as they inch across the floor toward my mattress. My body is heavy. I imagine my limbs weighted down into my bed, leaving an impression in the floor. 

I stretch my hand toward the panel of light, and because the days are cooler now, I feel its warmth on my fingers. I have to get up, but nothing in me wants to move. 

Before: After my brother’s funeral, I sublet my friend’s apartment in the city. When I arrive, it’s empty. The apartment across the hall is being renovated, and everything is coated in thick, white dust. My shoes leave tracks in it, door to window to door. Later, after I clean, the prints are reversed, the dust I track in from the hallway leaving pale smudges on the floor, marking the steps I’ve taken. I keep cleaning them, but the marks just change position. I leave a trail wherever I go.

Sangfroid in San Francisco

Autumn: When I wake up, the light in the apartment is that opaque milk-blue that looks like it ought to be something you can touch. The sun’s rays catch flecks of airborne dust and hold them suspended. I watch as they inch across the floor toward my mattress. My body is heavy. I imagine my limbs weighted down into my bed, leaving an impression in the floor. 

I stretch my hand toward the panel of light, and because the days are cooler now, I feel its warmth on my fingers. I have to get up, but nothing in me wants to move. 

Before: After my brother’s funeral, I sublet my friend’s apartment in the city. When I arrive, it’s empty. The apartment across the hall is being renovated, and everything is coated in thick, white dust. My shoes leave tracks in it, door to window to door. Later, after I clean, the prints are reversed, the dust I track in from the hallway leaving pale smudges on the floor, marking the steps I’ve taken. I keep cleaning them, but the marks just change position. I leave a trail wherever I go.

You Could Only Know Us

Autumn: When I wake up, the light in the apartment is that opaque milk-blue that looks like it ought to be something you can touch. The sun’s rays catch flecks of airborne dust and hold them suspended. I watch as they inch across the floor toward my mattress. My body is heavy. I imagine my limbs weighted down into my bed, leaving an impression in the floor. 

I stretch my hand toward the panel of light, and because the days are cooler now, I feel its warmth on my fingers. I have to get up, but nothing in me wants to move. 

Before: After my brother’s funeral, I sublet my friend’s apartment in the city. When I arrive, it’s empty. The apartment across the hall is being renovated, and everything is coated in thick, white dust. My shoes leave tracks in it, door to window to door. Later, after I clean, the prints are reversed, the dust I track in from the hallway leaving pale smudges on the floor, marking the steps I’ve taken. I keep cleaning them, but the marks just change position. I leave a trail wherever I go.

Evening Dogs

Autumn: When I wake up, the light in the apartment is that opaque milk-blue that looks like it ought to be something you can touch. The sun’s rays catch flecks of airborne dust and hold them suspended. I watch as they inch across the floor toward my mattress. My body is heavy. I imagine my limbs weighted down into my bed, leaving an impression in the floor. 

I stretch my hand toward the panel of light, and because the days are cooler now, I feel its warmth on my fingers. I have to get up, but nothing in me wants to move. 

Before: After my brother’s funeral, I sublet my friend’s apartment in the city. When I arrive, it’s empty. The apartment across the hall is being renovated, and everything is coated in thick, white dust. My shoes leave tracks in it, door to window to door. Later, after I clean, the prints are reversed, the dust I track in from the hallway leaving pale smudges on the floor, marking the steps I’ve taken. I keep cleaning them, but the marks just change position. I leave a trail wherever I go.

The Rent Manual

Autumn: When I wake up, the light in the apartment is that opaque milk-blue that looks like it ought to be something you can touch. The sun’s rays catch flecks of airborne dust and hold them suspended. I watch as they inch across the floor toward my mattress. My body is heavy. I imagine my limbs weighted down into my bed, leaving an impression in the floor. 

I stretch my hand toward the panel of light, and because the days are cooler now, I feel its warmth on my fingers. I have to get up, but nothing in me wants to move. 

Before: After my brother’s funeral, I sublet my friend’s apartment in the city. When I arrive, it’s empty. The apartment across the hall is being renovated, and everything is coated in thick, white dust. My shoes leave tracks in it, door to window to door. Later, after I clean, the prints are reversed, the dust I track in from the hallway leaving pale smudges on the floor, marking the steps I’ve taken. I keep cleaning them, but the marks just change position. I leave a trail wherever I go.

One Hundred Million Years of Solitude

Autumn: When I wake up, the light in the apartment is that opaque milk-blue that looks like it ought to be something you can touch. The sun’s rays catch flecks of airborne dust and hold them suspended. I watch as they inch across the floor toward my mattress. My body is heavy. I imagine my limbs weighted down into my bed, leaving an impression in the floor. 

I stretch my hand toward the panel of light, and because the days are cooler now, I feel its warmth on my fingers. I have to get up, but nothing in me wants to move. 

Before: After my brother’s funeral, I sublet my friend’s apartment in the city. When I arrive, it’s empty. The apartment across the hall is being renovated, and everything is coated in thick, white dust. My shoes leave tracks in it, door to window to door. Later, after I clean, the prints are reversed, the dust I track in from the hallway leaving pale smudges on the floor, marking the steps I’ve taken. I keep cleaning them, but the marks just change position. I leave a trail wherever I go.

Boys Go to Jupiter

Autumn: When I wake up, the light in the apartment is that opaque milk-blue that looks like it ought to be something you can touch. The sun’s rays catch flecks of airborne dust and hold them suspended. I watch as they inch across the floor toward my mattress. My body is heavy. I imagine my limbs weighted down into my bed, leaving an impression in the floor. 

I stretch my hand toward the panel of light, and because the days are cooler now, I feel its warmth on my fingers. I have to get up, but nothing in me wants to move. 

Before: After my brother’s funeral, I sublet my friend’s apartment in the city. When I arrive, it’s empty. The apartment across the hall is being renovated, and everything is coated in thick, white dust. My shoes leave tracks in it, door to window to door. Later, after I clean, the prints are reversed, the dust I track in from the hallway leaving pale smudges on the floor, marking the steps I’ve taken. I keep cleaning them, but the marks just change position. I leave a trail wherever I go.

First Times

Autumn: When I wake up, the light in the apartment is that opaque milk-blue that looks like it ought to be something you can touch. The sun’s rays catch flecks of airborne dust and hold them suspended. I watch as they inch across the floor toward my mattress. My body is heavy. I imagine my limbs weighted down into my bed, leaving an impression in the floor. 

I stretch my hand toward the panel of light, and because the days are cooler now, I feel its warmth on my fingers. I have to get up, but nothing in me wants to move. 

Before: After my brother’s funeral, I sublet my friend’s apartment in the city. When I arrive, it’s empty. The apartment across the hall is being renovated, and everything is coated in thick, white dust. My shoes leave tracks in it, door to window to door. Later, after I clean, the prints are reversed, the dust I track in from the hallway leaving pale smudges on the floor, marking the steps I’ve taken. I keep cleaning them, but the marks just change position. I leave a trail wherever I go.

So Far

Autumn: When I wake up, the light in the apartment is that opaque milk-blue that looks like it ought to be something you can touch. The sun’s rays catch flecks of airborne dust and hold them suspended. I watch as they inch across the floor toward my mattress. My body is heavy. I imagine my limbs weighted down into my bed, leaving an impression in the floor. 

I stretch my hand toward the panel of light, and because the days are cooler now, I feel its warmth on my fingers. I have to get up, but nothing in me wants to move. 

Before: After my brother’s funeral, I sublet my friend’s apartment in the city. When I arrive, it’s empty. The apartment across the hall is being renovated, and everything is coated in thick, white dust. My shoes leave tracks in it, door to window to door. Later, after I clean, the prints are reversed, the dust I track in from the hallway leaving pale smudges on the floor, marking the steps I’ve taken. I keep cleaning them, but the marks just change position. I leave a trail wherever I go.

True Blue Time

Autumn: When I wake up, the light in the apartment is that opaque milk-blue that looks like it ought to be something you can touch. The sun’s rays catch flecks of airborne dust and hold them suspended. I watch as they inch across the floor toward my mattress. My body is heavy. I imagine my limbs weighted down into my bed, leaving an impression in the floor. 

I stretch my hand toward the panel of light, and because the days are cooler now, I feel its warmth on my fingers. I have to get up, but nothing in me wants to move. 

Before: After my brother’s funeral, I sublet my friend’s apartment in the city. When I arrive, it’s empty. The apartment across the hall is being renovated, and everything is coated in thick, white dust. My shoes leave tracks in it, door to window to door. Later, after I clean, the prints are reversed, the dust I track in from the hallway leaving pale smudges on the floor, marking the steps I’ve taken. I keep cleaning them, but the marks just change position. I leave a trail wherever I go.

The Ocean Next Door

Autumn: When I wake up, the light in the apartment is that opaque milk-blue that looks like it ought to be something you can touch. The sun’s rays catch flecks of airborne dust and hold them suspended. I watch as they inch across the floor toward my mattress. My body is heavy. I imagine my limbs weighted down into my bed, leaving an impression in the floor. 

I stretch my hand toward the panel of light, and because the days are cooler now, I feel its warmth on my fingers. I have to get up, but nothing in me wants to move. 

Before: After my brother’s funeral, I sublet my friend’s apartment in the city. When I arrive, it’s empty. The apartment across the hall is being renovated, and everything is coated in thick, white dust. My shoes leave tracks in it, door to window to door. Later, after I clean, the prints are reversed, the dust I track in from the hallway leaving pale smudges on the floor, marking the steps I’ve taken. I keep cleaning them, but the marks just change position. I leave a trail wherever I go.

Al, Off the Grid

Autumn: When I wake up, the light in the apartment is that opaque milk-blue that looks like it ought to be something you can touch. The sun’s rays catch flecks of airborne dust and hold them suspended. I watch as they inch across the floor toward my mattress. My body is heavy. I imagine my limbs weighted down into my bed, leaving an impression in the floor. 

I stretch my hand toward the panel of light, and because the days are cooler now, I feel its warmth on my fingers. I have to get up, but nothing in me wants to move. 

Before: After my brother’s funeral, I sublet my friend’s apartment in the city. When I arrive, it’s empty. The apartment across the hall is being renovated, and everything is coated in thick, white dust. My shoes leave tracks in it, door to window to door. Later, after I clean, the prints are reversed, the dust I track in from the hallway leaving pale smudges on the floor, marking the steps I’ve taken. I keep cleaning them, but the marks just change position. I leave a trail wherever I go.

Hart Island

Autumn: When I wake up, the light in the apartment is that opaque milk-blue that looks like it ought to be something you can touch. The sun’s rays catch flecks of airborne dust and hold them suspended. I watch as they inch across the floor toward my mattress. My body is heavy. I imagine my limbs weighted down into my bed, leaving an impression in the floor. 

I stretch my hand toward the panel of light, and because the days are cooler now, I feel its warmth on my fingers. I have to get up, but nothing in me wants to move. 

Before: After my brother’s funeral, I sublet my friend’s apartment in the city. When I arrive, it’s empty. The apartment across the hall is being renovated, and everything is coated in thick, white dust. My shoes leave tracks in it, door to window to door. Later, after I clean, the prints are reversed, the dust I track in from the hallway leaving pale smudges on the floor, marking the steps I’ve taken. I keep cleaning them, but the marks just change position. I leave a trail wherever I go.

Goombahs

Autumn: When I wake up, the light in the apartment is that opaque milk-blue that looks like it ought to be something you can touch. The sun’s rays catch flecks of airborne dust and hold them suspended. I watch as they inch across the floor toward my mattress. My body is heavy. I imagine my limbs weighted down into my bed, leaving an impression in the floor. 

I stretch my hand toward the panel of light, and because the days are cooler now, I feel its warmth on my fingers. I have to get up, but nothing in me wants to move. 

Before: After my brother’s funeral, I sublet my friend’s apartment in the city. When I arrive, it’s empty. The apartment across the hall is being renovated, and everything is coated in thick, white dust. My shoes leave tracks in it, door to window to door. Later, after I clean, the prints are reversed, the dust I track in from the hallway leaving pale smudges on the floor, marking the steps I’ve taken. I keep cleaning them, but the marks just change position. I leave a trail wherever I go.

The Dragon

Autumn: When I wake up, the light in the apartment is that opaque milk-blue that looks like it ought to be something you can touch. The sun’s rays catch flecks of airborne dust and hold them suspended. I watch as they inch across the floor toward my mattress. My body is heavy. I imagine my limbs weighted down into my bed, leaving an impression in the floor. 

I stretch my hand toward the panel of light, and because the days are cooler now, I feel its warmth on my fingers. I have to get up, but nothing in me wants to move. 

Before: After my brother’s funeral, I sublet my friend’s apartment in the city. When I arrive, it’s empty. The apartment across the hall is being renovated, and everything is coated in thick, white dust. My shoes leave tracks in it, door to window to door. Later, after I clean, the prints are reversed, the dust I track in from the hallway leaving pale smudges on the floor, marking the steps I’ve taken. I keep cleaning them, but the marks just change position. I leave a trail wherever I go.

The Sloth

Autumn: When I wake up, the light in the apartment is that opaque milk-blue that looks like it ought to be something you can touch. The sun’s rays catch flecks of airborne dust and hold them suspended. I watch as they inch across the floor toward my mattress. My body is heavy. I imagine my limbs weighted down into my bed, leaving an impression in the floor. 

I stretch my hand toward the panel of light, and because the days are cooler now, I feel its warmth on my fingers. I have to get up, but nothing in me wants to move. 

Before: After my brother’s funeral, I sublet my friend’s apartment in the city. When I arrive, it’s empty. The apartment across the hall is being renovated, and everything is coated in thick, white dust. My shoes leave tracks in it, door to window to door. Later, after I clean, the prints are reversed, the dust I track in from the hallway leaving pale smudges on the floor, marking the steps I’ve taken. I keep cleaning them, but the marks just change position. I leave a trail wherever I go.

The Old Masters

Autumn: When I wake up, the light in the apartment is that opaque milk-blue that looks like it ought to be something you can touch. The sun’s rays catch flecks of airborne dust and hold them suspended. I watch as they inch across the floor toward my mattress. My body is heavy. I imagine my limbs weighted down into my bed, leaving an impression in the floor. 

I stretch my hand toward the panel of light, and because the days are cooler now, I feel its warmth on my fingers. I have to get up, but nothing in me wants to move. 

Before: After my brother’s funeral, I sublet my friend’s apartment in the city. When I arrive, it’s empty. The apartment across the hall is being renovated, and everything is coated in thick, white dust. My shoes leave tracks in it, door to window to door. Later, after I clean, the prints are reversed, the dust I track in from the hallway leaving pale smudges on the floor, marking the steps I’ve taken. I keep cleaning them, but the marks just change position. I leave a trail wherever I go.

Ava Gardner Goes Home

Autumn: When I wake up, the light in the apartment is that opaque milk-blue that looks like it ought to be something you can touch. The sun’s rays catch flecks of airborne dust and hold them suspended. I watch as they inch across the floor toward my mattress. My body is heavy. I imagine my limbs weighted down into my bed, leaving an impression in the floor. 

I stretch my hand toward the panel of light, and because the days are cooler now, I feel its warmth on my fingers. I have to get up, but nothing in me wants to move. 

Before: After my brother’s funeral, I sublet my friend’s apartment in the city. When I arrive, it’s empty. The apartment across the hall is being renovated, and everything is coated in thick, white dust. My shoes leave tracks in it, door to window to door. Later, after I clean, the prints are reversed, the dust I track in from the hallway leaving pale smudges on the floor, marking the steps I’ve taken. I keep cleaning them, but the marks just change position. I leave a trail wherever I go.

What’s There to Come Back To?

Autumn: When I wake up, the light in the apartment is that opaque milk-blue that looks like it ought to be something you can touch. The sun’s rays catch flecks of airborne dust and hold them suspended. I watch as they inch across the floor toward my mattress. My body is heavy. I imagine my limbs weighted down into my bed, leaving an impression in the floor. 

I stretch my hand toward the panel of light, and because the days are cooler now, I feel its warmth on my fingers. I have to get up, but nothing in me wants to move. 

Before: After my brother’s funeral, I sublet my friend’s apartment in the city. When I arrive, it’s empty. The apartment across the hall is being renovated, and everything is coated in thick, white dust. My shoes leave tracks in it, door to window to door. Later, after I clean, the prints are reversed, the dust I track in from the hallway leaving pale smudges on the floor, marking the steps I’ve taken. I keep cleaning them, but the marks just change position. I leave a trail wherever I go.

Postprandial

Autumn: When I wake up, the light in the apartment is that opaque milk-blue that looks like it ought to be something you can touch. The sun’s rays catch flecks of airborne dust and hold them suspended. I watch as they inch across the floor toward my mattress. My body is heavy. I imagine my limbs weighted down into my bed, leaving an impression in the floor. 

I stretch my hand toward the panel of light, and because the days are cooler now, I feel its warmth on my fingers. I have to get up, but nothing in me wants to move. 

Before: After my brother’s funeral, I sublet my friend’s apartment in the city. When I arrive, it’s empty. The apartment across the hall is being renovated, and everything is coated in thick, white dust. My shoes leave tracks in it, door to window to door. Later, after I clean, the prints are reversed, the dust I track in from the hallway leaving pale smudges on the floor, marking the steps I’ve taken. I keep cleaning them, but the marks just change position. I leave a trail wherever I go.

The Waterfall

Autumn: When I wake up, the light in the apartment is that opaque milk-blue that looks like it ought to be something you can touch. The sun’s rays catch flecks of airborne dust and hold them suspended. I watch as they inch across the floor toward my mattress. My body is heavy. I imagine my limbs weighted down into my bed, leaving an impression in the floor. 

I stretch my hand toward the panel of light, and because the days are cooler now, I feel its warmth on my fingers. I have to get up, but nothing in me wants to move. 

Before: After my brother’s funeral, I sublet my friend’s apartment in the city. When I arrive, it’s empty. The apartment across the hall is being renovated, and everything is coated in thick, white dust. My shoes leave tracks in it, door to window to door. Later, after I clean, the prints are reversed, the dust I track in from the hallway leaving pale smudges on the floor, marking the steps I’ve taken. I keep cleaning them, but the marks just change position. I leave a trail wherever I go.

Emaciated Poetry

Autumn: When I wake up, the light in the apartment is that opaque milk-blue that looks like it ought to be something you can touch. The sun’s rays catch flecks of airborne dust and hold them suspended. I watch as they inch across the floor toward my mattress. My body is heavy. I imagine my limbs weighted down into my bed, leaving an impression in the floor. 

I stretch my hand toward the panel of light, and because the days are cooler now, I feel its warmth on my fingers. I have to get up, but nothing in me wants to move. 

Before: After my brother’s funeral, I sublet my friend’s apartment in the city. When I arrive, it’s empty. The apartment across the hall is being renovated, and everything is coated in thick, white dust. My shoes leave tracks in it, door to window to door. Later, after I clean, the prints are reversed, the dust I track in from the hallway leaving pale smudges on the floor, marking the steps I’ve taken. I keep cleaning them, but the marks just change position. I leave a trail wherever I go.

Leaving Ireland

Autumn: When I wake up, the light in the apartment is that opaque milk-blue that looks like it ought to be something you can touch. The sun’s rays catch flecks of airborne dust and hold them suspended. I watch as they inch across the floor toward my mattress. My body is heavy. I imagine my limbs weighted down into my bed, leaving an impression in the floor. 

I stretch my hand toward the panel of light, and because the days are cooler now, I feel its warmth on my fingers. I have to get up, but nothing in me wants to move. 

Before: After my brother’s funeral, I sublet my friend’s apartment in the city. When I arrive, it’s empty. The apartment across the hall is being renovated, and everything is coated in thick, white dust. My shoes leave tracks in it, door to window to door. Later, after I clean, the prints are reversed, the dust I track in from the hallway leaving pale smudges on the floor, marking the steps I’ve taken. I keep cleaning them, but the marks just change position. I leave a trail wherever I go.

Mother Ireland

Autumn: When I wake up, the light in the apartment is that opaque milk-blue that looks like it ought to be something you can touch. The sun’s rays catch flecks of airborne dust and hold them suspended. I watch as they inch across the floor toward my mattress. My body is heavy. I imagine my limbs weighted down into my bed, leaving an impression in the floor. 

I stretch my hand toward the panel of light, and because the days are cooler now, I feel its warmth on my fingers. I have to get up, but nothing in me wants to move. 

Before: After my brother’s funeral, I sublet my friend’s apartment in the city. When I arrive, it’s empty. The apartment across the hall is being renovated, and everything is coated in thick, white dust. My shoes leave tracks in it, door to window to door. Later, after I clean, the prints are reversed, the dust I track in from the hallway leaving pale smudges on the floor, marking the steps I’ve taken. I keep cleaning them, but the marks just change position. I leave a trail wherever I go.

Cow Man

Autumn: When I wake up, the light in the apartment is that opaque milk-blue that looks like it ought to be something you can touch. The sun’s rays catch flecks of airborne dust and hold them suspended. I watch as they inch across the floor toward my mattress. My body is heavy. I imagine my limbs weighted down into my bed, leaving an impression in the floor. 

I stretch my hand toward the panel of light, and because the days are cooler now, I feel its warmth on my fingers. I have to get up, but nothing in me wants to move. 

Before: After my brother’s funeral, I sublet my friend’s apartment in the city. When I arrive, it’s empty. The apartment across the hall is being renovated, and everything is coated in thick, white dust. My shoes leave tracks in it, door to window to door. Later, after I clean, the prints are reversed, the dust I track in from the hallway leaving pale smudges on the floor, marking the steps I’ve taken. I keep cleaning them, but the marks just change position. I leave a trail wherever I go.

The Caretaker

Autumn: When I wake up, the light in the apartment is that opaque milk-blue that looks like it ought to be something you can touch. The sun’s rays catch flecks of airborne dust and hold them suspended. I watch as they inch across the floor toward my mattress. My body is heavy. I imagine my limbs weighted down into my bed, leaving an impression in the floor. 

I stretch my hand toward the panel of light, and because the days are cooler now, I feel its warmth on my fingers. I have to get up, but nothing in me wants to move. 

Before: After my brother’s funeral, I sublet my friend’s apartment in the city. When I arrive, it’s empty. The apartment across the hall is being renovated, and everything is coated in thick, white dust. My shoes leave tracks in it, door to window to door. Later, after I clean, the prints are reversed, the dust I track in from the hallway leaving pale smudges on the floor, marking the steps I’ve taken. I keep cleaning them, but the marks just change position. I leave a trail wherever I go.

Slide

Autumn: When I wake up, the light in the apartment is that opaque milk-blue that looks like it ought to be something you can touch. The sun’s rays catch flecks of airborne dust and hold them suspended. I watch as they inch across the floor toward my mattress. My body is heavy. I imagine my limbs weighted down into my bed, leaving an impression in the floor. 

I stretch my hand toward the panel of light, and because the days are cooler now, I feel its warmth on my fingers. I have to get up, but nothing in me wants to move. 

Before: After my brother’s funeral, I sublet my friend’s apartment in the city. When I arrive, it’s empty. The apartment across the hall is being renovated, and everything is coated in thick, white dust. My shoes leave tracks in it, door to window to door. Later, after I clean, the prints are reversed, the dust I track in from the hallway leaving pale smudges on the floor, marking the steps I’ve taken. I keep cleaning them, but the marks just change position. I leave a trail wherever I go.

From La Ribera

Autumn: When I wake up, the light in the apartment is that opaque milk-blue that looks like it ought to be something you can touch. The sun’s rays catch flecks of airborne dust and hold them suspended. I watch as they inch across the floor toward my mattress. My body is heavy. I imagine my limbs weighted down into my bed, leaving an impression in the floor. 

I stretch my hand toward the panel of light, and because the days are cooler now, I feel its warmth on my fingers. I have to get up, but nothing in me wants to move. 

Before: After my brother’s funeral, I sublet my friend’s apartment in the city. When I arrive, it’s empty. The apartment across the hall is being renovated, and everything is coated in thick, white dust. My shoes leave tracks in it, door to window to door. Later, after I clean, the prints are reversed, the dust I track in from the hallway leaving pale smudges on the floor, marking the steps I’ve taken. I keep cleaning them, but the marks just change position. I leave a trail wherever I go.

Fire Sermon

Autumn: When I wake up, the light in the apartment is that opaque milk-blue that looks like it ought to be something you can touch. The sun’s rays catch flecks of airborne dust and hold them suspended. I watch as they inch across the floor toward my mattress. My body is heavy. I imagine my limbs weighted down into my bed, leaving an impression in the floor. 

I stretch my hand toward the panel of light, and because the days are cooler now, I feel its warmth on my fingers. I have to get up, but nothing in me wants to move. 

Before: After my brother’s funeral, I sublet my friend’s apartment in the city. When I arrive, it’s empty. The apartment across the hall is being renovated, and everything is coated in thick, white dust. My shoes leave tracks in it, door to window to door. Later, after I clean, the prints are reversed, the dust I track in from the hallway leaving pale smudges on the floor, marking the steps I’ve taken. I keep cleaning them, but the marks just change position. I leave a trail wherever I go.

The King of Dauphin Island

Autumn: When I wake up, the light in the apartment is that opaque milk-blue that looks like it ought to be something you can touch. The sun’s rays catch flecks of airborne dust and hold them suspended. I watch as they inch across the floor toward my mattress. My body is heavy. I imagine my limbs weighted down into my bed, leaving an impression in the floor. 

I stretch my hand toward the panel of light, and because the days are cooler now, I feel its warmth on my fingers. I have to get up, but nothing in me wants to move. 

Before: After my brother’s funeral, I sublet my friend’s apartment in the city. When I arrive, it’s empty. The apartment across the hall is being renovated, and everything is coated in thick, white dust. My shoes leave tracks in it, door to window to door. Later, after I clean, the prints are reversed, the dust I track in from the hallway leaving pale smudges on the floor, marking the steps I’ve taken. I keep cleaning them, but the marks just change position. I leave a trail wherever I go.

The Okiedoke

Autumn: When I wake up, the light in the apartment is that opaque milk-blue that looks like it ought to be something you can touch. The sun’s rays catch flecks of airborne dust and hold them suspended. I watch as they inch across the floor toward my mattress. My body is heavy. I imagine my limbs weighted down into my bed, leaving an impression in the floor. 

I stretch my hand toward the panel of light, and because the days are cooler now, I feel its warmth on my fingers. I have to get up, but nothing in me wants to move. 

Before: After my brother’s funeral, I sublet my friend’s apartment in the city. When I arrive, it’s empty. The apartment across the hall is being renovated, and everything is coated in thick, white dust. My shoes leave tracks in it, door to window to door. Later, after I clean, the prints are reversed, the dust I track in from the hallway leaving pale smudges on the floor, marking the steps I’ve taken. I keep cleaning them, but the marks just change position. I leave a trail wherever I go.

The Dark Waters

Autumn: When I wake up, the light in the apartment is that opaque milk-blue that looks like it ought to be something you can touch. The sun’s rays catch flecks of airborne dust and hold them suspended. I watch as they inch across the floor toward my mattress. My body is heavy. I imagine my limbs weighted down into my bed, leaving an impression in the floor. 

I stretch my hand toward the panel of light, and because the days are cooler now, I feel its warmth on my fingers. I have to get up, but nothing in me wants to move. 

Before: After my brother’s funeral, I sublet my friend’s apartment in the city. When I arrive, it’s empty. The apartment across the hall is being renovated, and everything is coated in thick, white dust. My shoes leave tracks in it, door to window to door. Later, after I clean, the prints are reversed, the dust I track in from the hallway leaving pale smudges on the floor, marking the steps I’ve taken. I keep cleaning them, but the marks just change position. I leave a trail wherever I go.

Revelation

Autumn: When I wake up, the light in the apartment is that opaque milk-blue that looks like it ought to be something you can touch. The sun’s rays catch flecks of airborne dust and hold them suspended. I watch as they inch across the floor toward my mattress. My body is heavy. I imagine my limbs weighted down into my bed, leaving an impression in the floor. 

I stretch my hand toward the panel of light, and because the days are cooler now, I feel its warmth on my fingers. I have to get up, but nothing in me wants to move. 

Before: After my brother’s funeral, I sublet my friend’s apartment in the city. When I arrive, it’s empty. The apartment across the hall is being renovated, and everything is coated in thick, white dust. My shoes leave tracks in it, door to window to door. Later, after I clean, the prints are reversed, the dust I track in from the hallway leaving pale smudges on the floor, marking the steps I’ve taken. I keep cleaning them, but the marks just change position. I leave a trail wherever I go.

The Coblins

Autumn: When I wake up, the light in the apartment is that opaque milk-blue that looks like it ought to be something you can touch. The sun’s rays catch flecks of airborne dust and hold them suspended. I watch as they inch across the floor toward my mattress. My body is heavy. I imagine my limbs weighted down into my bed, leaving an impression in the floor. 

I stretch my hand toward the panel of light, and because the days are cooler now, I feel its warmth on my fingers. I have to get up, but nothing in me wants to move. 

Before: After my brother’s funeral, I sublet my friend’s apartment in the city. When I arrive, it’s empty. The apartment across the hall is being renovated, and everything is coated in thick, white dust. My shoes leave tracks in it, door to window to door. Later, after I clean, the prints are reversed, the dust I track in from the hallway leaving pale smudges on the floor, marking the steps I’ve taken. I keep cleaning them, but the marks just change position. I leave a trail wherever I go.

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