Anna Hillary
Domino Volcano
About the garden. Will we still walk, bodies filled up. Rich with water dreamt under scars, harvesting
the profanity (unspeakable) of sensible fears. How long to scrub memory of skin: sludge between toes,
honeyed extinction/slippery pleasure, cold and wet under/sweltering rays. There’s nothing more
refreshing than washing away/Or planning to leave. Because January rides/stripped soil and staying
means/staking eyes so tired lids only see the language of eternal vacation, closing this version of once
upon a final goodbye.