Furl

Still unsettled hot asphalt
footprints track onto the sidewalk. Haunted

house promotions begin
in August. She looks for verbena along the wrong

boulevard. Tree lawns
for the weary of new

words. One bruise refuses
to blossom, another won’t

fade away. A Friday afternoon—it’s not too late
to retrace her steps. Jazz

trombonist turned portrait photographer—he’s still
the rapist to her.

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