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Photos we look bad
in. Braggy newsletter. That’s
how we keep in touch.
…create. Impatient
that I won’t pay attention
when I’m writing stuff.
Flat mapped names turn in-
to forested hills, roads wind
towards adventure.
At the interview
J’s hired on the spot, full of
new employee glee.
J replaced my mouse
that broke. M’s card made me cry.
Both my greatest gift.
Undercooked pancakes,
misspelled cards, weeds for flowers.
Love makes them perfect.
M came home and washed
all the dishes in the sink
trying to be nice.
Our waitress admits
the town has its share of ghosts.
We sleep with lights on.
She curls around the
baby like a spiral shell
protecting its snail.
My weirdness is as
apparent in my kids as
streaks in a fake tan.
In wordless despair
M dissolves in tears clutching
me like a life vest.
Muddy quads, walls bare
of ivy still inspire awe.
Can we get in?
Unaware of her
beauty, unselfconsciousness
gives each movement grace.
“We’re domestic,” a
blonde woman tells her daughter
in line at the gate.
On a cluttered Queens
balcony he stands, watching
the complex decay.
J9 can’t sleep since
her mother died stays up and
writes heartache in tears.
Today J begins
flying not yet a driver
the sky’s the limit



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