by Richard King Perkins II Erika Lowe That Friday morning I claimed my derision to be the texture of forgiveness within a forgotten apocalypse of deepest bass drums. We shared an oatmeal cookie as I let you rest your head in the cleft between my shoulder and chest in a colder sun than either of us could remember. Where your heel presses deepest marigolds retreat into tenuous living greenery. I’ll take you with me to the new old house outside Boston where there is one last

by Richard King Perkins II Andrew Ling You thought I might have an attachment to an unused postcard from a trip we took to the Black Hills back in ‘99. You said you found it while going through things to give to Goodwill and offered to send it to me in a padded mailer or a large envelope. I laughed and asked if you could just put a stamp on it and give it to the letter carrier. It was delivered a few minutes ago along with a credit card statement and advertising from Stat