never truly happened thing


Soils which compact easily, opportunity as it caves in. I am hollering pulling the fish to the bank, in summary light: full morning. Thoughts stuck in the ground for sale, a tendency to be completely shade adapted blooms profusely. Give me death or give me a price, mountains flopping on land like some young flower, sort of chartreuse later fallen out. I’ve been to her trailer once. I set in her chair while it was still warm. Sin as it first develops out of my abdomen, continuously as I remember, the ideas of something like your callous hands or city limit sign.

Evan Gray is from Jefferson, North Carolina. He is the author of three chapbooks of poetry: Blindspot (the Rest (Garden-Door Press 2017); Body Birth (Above/Ground Press, 2019); Dusk Melody (Shirt-Pocket Press 2019). His essays and work have been featured in Denver Quarterly, DIAGRAM, and others. Currently, he is a Visiting Assistant Professor at Appalachian State University.