This Slowly Stampeding
Eryn Green

                           Teakettle on the stovetop, no more
                            boxes we thought. The white roof's sudden razing,
                            the storm a hundred miles off—not bad news,
                            bad luck. Without notice, windows
                            won't budge. Tiny far-fetched flickerings
                            pass like paper from a windy deck—I've learned to
                            hold a shadow in a box. By the evaporating shore,
                            past the river, we strain through horsehair
                            to see which shapes are people
                            and which are reeds.

Homage

A series of conversations about breaking stuff.

"I really don't want to talk about this."

"Fine. Okay," said Kate. This was just last night. Long silence for a phone conversation, maybe ten seconds, maybe even fifteen or twenty. Not twenty. But long. Maybe fifteen.

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