The Eight Disorders of Dying. Illustrations by Neil Peter Dyck.


4.  A car there parked beneath my apartment one evening. A half-figure, cut off from my angle, sat alone in the driver’s seat in the middle of a conversation. The blue-tooth bled loudly — bass-y — into the night and up through my open window. The other conversant was saying, “Do you know what he said to me? He said he thought of me as an adopted child.” They had only slept together five times, the voice through car speakers and through the glass said. I couldn’t hear the half-form’s response, but its silhouette was tense and unwavering. It felt like there should be more.


Against Seven Oaks


1. The brakes of a bus. The furnace waking. Any soft sounds
were your words — the way you whispered over the phone. A city becoming mine and part of me.

The chime of the clock and the direction of your eyes. A rooster crowing while The Clash was calling.

In all these connections, we were representative of nothing.

It was all quite impossible and an early form of madness. But you called it something else, what you thought you saw through the pews and beyond the hesitation to push past knees into the airplane aisle.

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