Samuel Wagan Watson

He bolted, his body casting crazed silhouettes that led the way. Starlight. Shrubs. Tussocks of grass. A soft, sandy floor to run upon.

standing under the ex-wife’s house    concrete pillars covered in / the
hieroglyphics of grubby little hands    pieces of antique chairs hang /
that we had planned to restore together    arm-rests of that old coach,