SHORT
The stereo plays west-coast rap by seventeen year-olds and I know that I never have to die.
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Across the center of the page is a single line of type: “Do not look here.” He looks up again.
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She appears in the open door. Clit Fourchette. Small, unexpected, a wonder to behold.
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I was reminded of my father’s hockey days, when the lake would freeze and our faces would wither, his always more than mine, and how when it was time to go home for dinner he’d chew on the puck, weeping.
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Noah’s heart is an ark because it is a hollow bowl floating and because the world has lined up two-by-two for entrance into where Noah is.
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