Untitled by Alex Kamper
Welcome to Sag Harbor. Seep down Main Street, past historically hollow street signs and golems that crush and deflate like silk scarves. Allow yourself to be hung on the clothesline or pretend your body is the leg hair blowing, garment-drying wind. Buy a coffee from a friendly face that knows your name and what you did last night. In the summer allow your hand to reach for the ignition and migrate to the beach – lost but always spotted in the metal buffalo herd. Walk through neighborhoods and fall so in love with what was that you don’t know how to live in what is. Put your lips around paper and inhale the resentment of adolescent ancestors. You were never young, and you won’t be old until you’re down at Oakland. Stare at windows you’d rather be staring through. Number 27. A brown shingled erection. A black market, a castle, and a cathedral.