That proves you are unusual,” returned the Scarecrow; “and I am convinced that the only people worthy of consideration in this world are the unusual ones. For the common folks are like the leaves of a tree, and live and die unnoticed.
some things never leave a person: scent of the hair of one you love, the texture of persimmons, in your palm, the ripe weight.
Some days in late August at home are like this, the air thin and eager like this, with something in it sad and nostalgic and familiar…
which tells you, here,
here is the world.
This mouth. This laughter.
These temple bones.
how long does it take to percuss this antidote page by page?
to know this, to sow this, to grow this graveyard of intimate dread
to sit—half promise, half prophecy, an anthology of alcohol at dawn
to learn that all the ghosts that haunt your heart needn’t come from the dead