Laure McFather

green light on tenth struck me with a paleness i noticed just then, forever the same paleness of your eyes looking at the cold sea, i’m sure, and i wonder if i’ll ever get to verify the sight (smell the salt on your skin, on the ipomoeas). curl up in our bed of kelp and float away, become water inside, live on shark eggs, raise each other up like new

something is always turning away from something else. are you turning away from me now? let me strike myself! let me strike fear of god in myself before you turn away. you’ve already turned away in the time it took to beg. you’ve already turned away from the pathetic fawn that struck itself dead, another one in the headlights. the headlights turn away. the ipomoeas turn away. night resumes.

a thin man comes into sight, on a bicycle, moving too slowly to keep on but he continues, steadied by a large bag of empty bottles strung across his back. he won’t notice me and i know i must follow him. my fear of the future is abated. for years i follow him through city streets sewers dungeons, rows of shotguns. i take a lover and i leave the lover in the dirty streets i tie twenty sheets together and lasso the man on the bike i tie wheels to my shoes my body is beaten down. the man cuts the sheet from himself i take off my shoes keep running and my feet are shredded. the earth erodes –– from heaven escapes something flaxen feverish holy. so the thin man falls off the bicycle and the bottles fly out of the bag and i am here, i am here in the middle of the sea in the middle of the endless aureate field, about to burst and the man turns toward me and i am fatally struck by a green paleness forever

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