Mark Cunningham

Second Story

Sink

but it doesn’t.  It outlasts stubble and dreams and spit, even in cold-water motels in Montana.  In half-demolished buildings it still juts from the wall on the fourth floor, bared to the rain.  You cup your hands in imitation, for a moment search for a steadying light, a no change, then as water drains from your face you open your eyes.  Find your reflection.

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