A cloud of blood rises from the tall grass as soon as my shadow crosses the path I take to escape the broken mortar and leaning bricks of the house I've called home for twenty odd years and I never noticed how wings look a lot like blades in the hands of angels if you squint hard enough.

It's the summer of painting everything off-white and naming it heaven. Of course, it isn't. White, I mean. Anything can become heaven if you hallucinate long enough. But, the heat in the South makes the wind spiral on the ground, tossing dried leaves as though an imp has a tantrum. Everyone here sweats: it would be weirder if you didn't and your mascara wasn't runny or foundation a little melty. Meanwhile, I dream of swimming around the hulk of an iceberg. I dream of sunbathing in the Netherlands holding hands with a Swedish boy half-frozen in his birthday suit. This world isn't meant to be purposeful. It's an escape between two long instances of the void. So, why not paint everything bright before staring into the darkness forever? If you want to get to heaven, you have to knock down the walls. You have to bulldoze the borders. You have to relinquish the hate like a glacier. Wait. Let the ice return. Scrape the land and make grooves through it. Call this love. Meanwhile, I'm sitting in front of a plastic fan, smoking a menthol and sipping molasses-brown sweet tea. I'm texting my lover, asking: Do you want to go visit the swimming hole soon? Don't bring anything. Just your flesh. Just your mouth. Just your heavenly scapulae. Maybe, if we swim long enough, we'll prune so deep we can let down our wings.