E. Ferrell
I’m thinking about growing a mustache, and I’m thinking about asking if you mind. But you’re still considering good, old-fashioned monasticism, and I still have the kind of cancer that looks backwards. So we exist only in the beginnings. Credits set to music, a street scene or a party or the morning after. On the side table, our final cubes swim like a shiver of glass sharks. Nearly melted, we spend the night in my wired bed, holding our breath, the covers pulled up to our bald lips.
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E. Ferrell is a Texas-born writer, now residing in Brooklyn.