Grant’s tire crushed a hypodermic needle as his BMW rolled to a stop at a red light. He was explaining wireless internet to Taylor, the woman riding shotgun (a 7.5, he will later rate her to his buddies). Grant observed his pre-gentrified surroundings with an arrogant ease that relied entirely on being inside of an automobile. They were headed to a pop-up concept in an abandoned warehouse in Denver Arts District that was doing a $250/head tasting menu.

The kale bunches, thick-skulled and Germanic,
Green as envy. Eight dollars, ninety-nine
For what Aurelia pulled free
From Wellesley soil. I buy three bundles of virtue
That will blacken like the bell jar.

If I was a horse,
I’d be, like… into horse stuff.
Running, probably.
Or standing still in a field,
which seems like a big part of it.
Eating grass?
Yeah, definitely eating grass.

My bath bucket knows too much.
It has witnessed every version of me—
the young body, the unsure body,
the body that believed in future,
and the one renegotiating its terms.

or perhaps a very small and angry god
with an affinity for socks and unprovoked violence.