I carry Tarkovsky's ear in my pocket, still listening to the rain of Stalker, while the rest of his body evaporates in memory like a priest who lost his faith but not his habit. I carry Wong Kar-wai's eyelids in my chest, always late,...

I don’t know why we painted the front porch this silver grey the wood is still flaky still brown under it’s neutral coat like those kids flapping around in their plastic cable knit sweaters feet still land bound with the...