Independent of the eye-stinging secondhand smoke, today has been hot garbage for me, both of my husbands, and the mother of my godchild, which is not how anyone should spend Alan Turing's yahrzeit. Have a ghost poem for him which I had not previously encountered: Linda Bierds, "Evolution." I am forty-one years old, not yet close enough to my birthday to have outlived him, unimaginably closer than when I was sixteen. When Christopher Morcom was my age, he had been dead for twenty-three years.
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- 1: A stranger light comes on slowly
- 2: A kidnapper wouldn't jump into a cold sea
- 3: I might fail math if you don't move your shoulder
- 4: One boundary makes another
- 5: I swear only this city knows
- 6: It's maybe five minutes onscreen
- 7: From the morning past the evening to the end of the light
- 8: I bought Blue Velvet on a DVD
- 9: A lonesome highway is a pretty good subject
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