I took the test. Persistent rash? A cough? A rumor. A fungus
from that polluted Ipanema beach. I smiled when I heard, took a drag, bent
my wrist, palm up. Juana Delledonne.
Chōshū
In the courtyard, 1867. The last heir,
black-haired and naked before dawn; winter
starlight through the bare branches of the banyan fucking whistling—
he’s opened
