Somehow it’s like lights on the streets reflecting into puddles at night. It writes hymns to light and on the sunniest days, I go hunting at the gap on the mountain to hear its songs. Kids go there to drink, and they fling their empty bottles to the dirt, liquid shatters, shatters, shatters, echoing the night it fell. I dig fossils of recklessness and bad decisions, and I fill my pockets with the wildest youth. Sharp ocean pieces, frozen into points like waves that can draw blood. I dropped a mug for tea, and stole a handle-piece, and when it fell on my floor, I forgot all about the little Englishman. Instead I worshipped the frozen ocean, the pagans, and hung them in my sunniest windows.
Spring, 2019 Issue