It has no name yet, but it is itself, and it is good. And I have been up all night making it and now I am tired.
First line: "If you ever read this, you'll tell me what grew over the arbor was ivy, not wisteria."
Pretty things: a scent garden, a sundial, a guest book, a pocket square.
Horrible things: a gold cross, a froth of sputum, chicken fried rice.
Ongoing themes in my current work: queer girls in high school, and the forgetting of enormous things.
Every other living thing in my house has gone to bed. My neighbours, on the other side of the plaster and lath, have turned down their music, but they are still laughing, and this is the sound that will lull me to sleep.