Are you still alone
in bed? Is it morning yet where you are? The smoke turns to rain as usual. Listen, my love. This year is just a visitor & next year’s
ghost. Take care of it because yes—yes, you do deserve flowers for once in your life. You will be the only one left. So hold my hand & call me
tomorrow. We are all here.
— Michael Wasson, from “Your Shadow Invents You Every Time Light Fails to Pass Through You,” published in Poetry

















