This City Hands Me Myths; I Hand Them Back Today happened on accident and underground. I spent it missing trains, mistaking brass tiles in a barrel-vaulted concourse for sound, and sound for solace. I pursed my lips, kissed a wall made of whispers, and decided to once again listen to what it told me. To leave with or be le" by the first stranger to mistake me for a pillar. Or to be a pillar, unable to leave. Another train, another tunnel turned gospel by headlight. According to diﬀerent shades of sharpie, I’m a dirty hippie, and any trash bag swept from a storm grate can apotheosize above skyscrapers. I swear, if I see another thing shipped to the sky. I swear, if the sky. Say something else. Say the stars can be as drunk with all this as I imagine. That our windows keep a kind of time, code our longings in light—amber, bruise-colored, absence—and transmit to gaseous eyes with burning lids that close only once. Yesterday, a man wearing a sign said, not long.
C A R O L I N A Q U A R T E R LY