Dormitory Fire

for a professor of mine who died.

consider the size of night
that passes, the frightened assembly
of students and unwed orientationers here
who lust in the rubbing of Darkness’s
wet finger-webbings against our skin
classes have yet to start, but already
there is a fire here to rival our dormitory’s
upbringing, with tender articles of unread
nightclothes melting and all of us grabbing
large handfuls of someone to spread
on the pavement. can you see us by the fire?
sweating like steam from a pile of community
bath towels, setting then setting again on
faces, flickering, all of us lit in the stairwell
of a stifling coed hallway. Doctor

you could play a child’s guitar
like a thousand-year-old tree
i am only high for a second
before i am coming down


    • Britt Luttrell

      Malin! Your words feel nice on me. I peaked your photography and it’s from everywhere! The pictures from Peru in particular are arresting.

      Anyway, you’re awesome for still reading.

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