L i s a M a r ko w i t z
Hood
I’d like to say he entered the car on the way there. He entered it, cupped his hands over. Mine were yellow and we drove where girls run on grass, white-lined path of Cleveland Pears.
Track of rolling green where the girls are.
They spoke in the most unusual way. Marble mantle, rows of pictures framed in milk. Wine from a godghost, elixirs and plum cake from mother to mother.
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