Wait. Weight.

The southern city was full of all manner of curvilinear impediments and drop-offs. It led to a vertiginous sensation she abhorred—it seemed as if the angry sky and sea wished to become one turbid space. She saw cloud arms descending from a fanged sky—the world was tooth and mettle and the kidney bingo would not wait. She heard the northern city beckoning her back—and she just arrived—but it would have to wait. Wait. Weight.

What I’m Reading:

Slow any song
and sorrow blooms

like blood
through a bandage.

Slow sorrow
and it darkens like dusk-

stained windows.

— Phillip Watts Brown / “If You Play “Jolene” at 33 RPM”