The wind glanced at her hair.
It was as simple as that.
I turned to say something–
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THE AUTOPSY OF
This is the autopsy of Trout Fishing in America as if TroutFishing in America had been Lord Byron and had died inMissolonghi, Greece, and afterward never saw the shoresof Idaho again, never saw Carrie Creek, Worsewick HotSprings, Paradise Creek, Salt Creek and Duck Lake again.The Autopsy of Trout Fishing in America:‘The body was in excellent…
If you will die for me,
and our graves will be like two lovers washingtheir clothes togetherin a laundromatIf you will bring the soapI will bring the bleach.
La voyageuse qui traverse les Halles à la tombée de l’été
Le désespoir roulait au ciel ses grands arums si beauxEt dans le sac à main il y avait mon rêve ce flacon de selsQue seule a respiré la marraine de DieuLes torpeurs se déployaient comme la buéeAu Chien qui fumeOu venaient d’entrer le pour et le contreLa jeune femme ne pouvait être vue d’eux que…
THE HUNCHBACK TROUT
too close together. The creek was like 12, 845 telephonebooths in a row with high Victorian ceilings and all the doorstaken off and all the backs of the booths knocked out.Sometimes when I went fishing in there, I felt just like atelephone repairman, even though I did not look like one. Iwas only a kid…
If I were to live my life
in scaffolds of skin and whiskersat the bottom of a pondand you were to come byone eveningwhen the moon was shiningdown into my dark homeand stand there at the edgeof my affectionand think, ‘It’s beautifulhere by this pond.I wishsomebody loved me,’I’d love you and be your catfishfriend and drive such lonelythoughts from your mindand suddenly…
The sweet juices of your mouth
I’ve never had it done so gently before.You have put a circle of castlesaround my penis and you swirl themlike sunlight on the wings of birds.