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The Man in the Brown Coat The man in a brown coat lives in a house no one sees. Many believe the man in a brown coat is hoping to avoid a thick percentage of winter.
He is a heavy man weighed down by syndromes and brown hats. His hands are soaked with coldness and in the middle of the white he stands knowing every squirrel—knowing the passing groan of each arctic refrain. Each aching fox.
Sometimes he takes off his coat and stands in the middle of the white. Sometimes he stands there naked remembering what naked feels like. He sits down in the coldness and studies the bones hidden deep in his fingers—the pattern of skin. Of cliffs and low pressure. Sometimes he whispers when no one else is around, “I am animal.”
He climbs up the trunk of a mature northern pine. The man in a brown coat looks out beyond a white sea. He recalls past evenings spent as a boy in a brown coat. Galloping in the high and stubborn grassland before snowfall. Before the bitter quaking. Before the hallucinations gnawed him away like a flock of tattered hawk-moths.
Madame Lawley Madame Lawley has no time for a husband. Her husband has developed in a crooked manner—he has been sitting far too long and his seat cushion foam is now bulging. She has since removed his face from memory. She has since disguised herself as an object of living room décor.
Madame Lawley lives on the walls of a living room like a long-legged spider hungry for purpose. She crawls the horizontal path of plaid wallpaper. She licks away the dust with the balls of her heels. Madame Lawley’s stomach is throbbing with friction and silk. Each yard of silken thread containing bits of gnarled story.
Her husband falls out of his chair. Her spinnerets release the contents. Her husband’s forehead shatters his own glasses.
Madame Lawley descends with an open mouth.
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