Albion

The woman sitting beside me is so beautiful that I can smell my girlfriend, and she lives in Australia.  Whole days go by without a single sin: days of dogsigns, pigeon shit, husks of the corn islands lining my worn pockets.  If love were a question, I’d do my homework, but it’s a plant and not all of us are born with green thumbs.  In fact, I’m told, most of us are born beneath heat-lamps: screaming, resisting, hoping that the doctor will do something with that knife other than cut the cord that binds us to our mother’s belly.

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