Small Square of Light
(for Pamela; it was always for you) My new understanding of ghosts began in a Red Roof Inn in Indiana with the whiskey-wet taste of love like I’d never felt so strongly before, never felt at all before, in fact. Winter wind scratching at the glass, its banshee wail spreading across the sleepless plains while we sat in the floor between the two full-sized beds, warm heat blowing from the heater under the window, and we talked between tasting the liquor on each other’s lips — talked of the snow and the gas station coffee, of the restroom keys chained to bricks, of the lone abandoned...
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