No Poem Is the Only Poem. No Story Is the Only Story.
The lights flashed in the rearview mirror. Red and blue filled every inch of space. I looked over at my roommate, Sonya. We were driving home after a night of partying in Coconut Grove. It was Sonya’s last day in Miami, where we were freshmen at Florida International University.
And again and now, I will try and reason with the mirror.
...I was told repeatedly not to go to the end of the block. This was said as if creatures from a distant planet lived there. My mother was of the opinion that the people “at the end of the block” were to be avoided.
Like Jackson Pollack and Mark Rothko, Jokūbas numbered his paintings, refusing to ever give any of them a title or even a date.
All the sap dripped from him.
Heirs licked the sweetness.
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