pipermydog

He takes my hand and plants heat in my palm. “Hurry, hurry,” he urges me and his voice is distant and warm. It’s June but there are no crickets chirping. The air has turned into tulle and swallows veil themselves in pink and gray. The ground opens greedy under our feet as we run, we stumble into her hunger for moons and craters, for dirt. It’s swollen and clods like balloons creak in the dense dusk and fill the clouds. We spoon them in our soles, the rain forks them. We’re cols of paper, flushes of spilt milk and our lines disappear as the water keeps overwriting. We’re bronchi, fleshy and bloody and white with

Skein after Yukio Mishima             She is not really sure when it began, she tells me. The studio is nearly empty, augmented by the absence of equipment and other photographers. Her voice is low but audible. There is something pleasant about its sexless frequency, the white throat just wide of feminine as she swallows. All her features toe the line of beauty the same way—dark eyes wide but sparsely lashed, crooked brows arching elegant but thick.             She'd had a sleeping disorder since she was a very small child. She tried various pills, sleep counselors, yoga, herbal treatments, everything she could get her hands on. But