I can still feel the texture of those humid Delta mornings, hear the rhythm of the voices of black children echoing down the halls. I still remember the sense of purpose that I had each day, knowing that this, here, mattered: a child’s education, their

In a corner of a neighbor’s land too stony to till Cob makes a mystery.

Mounds of earth and grassless ground

A son packs his bag - bottled water, extra masks, and jerky. Mom paces behind him. “Don't go.”

He begins talking about string theory. He reels me back in, from the dinosaurs to the infinite, human evolution and alternate dimensions, until it makes so little sense that everything makes sense.

4. Hers blocking driveway, his diagonal in grass

I loved to visit my grandparents when I was a kid.

“No names,” she said. “I am the mysterious woman, and you are the handsome stranger.”

"Carl, do you think we can fit all of our furniture into that red house?" Jeanne asks. She wonders how easily you could burn a red house down, if a claw foot tub will melt or be left standing in a field of black grass. He reaches for her hair, the dizzy smell…

No snippets for you.

That morning, four children appeared in front of the train, which was ready to depart

You anchor the real You make love to the true I am bound to you in consecration

And because the film is French, the camera pauses / long moments at the curve of her neck, it watches/ her finger vermilion tulips in a vase. Her new lover,/ a wisp of a man, looks good in leather./ The camera pans quickly across beige suede,/ rests long

The signal sets the faint young boys into motion

"What is a vageena?" I wanted to know.