The Fence
it was a big bastard of a project, the first time I saw the house, the kind of dumb hope you buy when you still believe in forever. the front fence, cast iron, 1940s, rising off its brick columns, proud and solid, untouched by the rot that had taken everything else. I made the rust
Ladybird Long Stay Hotel
late in the season again — the way I’m late for everything that matters — and there they hang, those dead hydrangea heads, brown and crisp as paper lanterns left out in the rain, still clinging to stems that don’t give a damn, pushing out new blossoms anyway, pink and smug, like the world saying