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    The Paris Review

    Kolumbo, 1650

    Sep 06, 2022 1 minute

    It wasn’t wind. It differently burned.My child’s child, a reptile in pumice. A whitethat wasn’t a cloud. Santorini, a blowngasket, disappearing into a future without us.I had no skin. So many nights, Iover coal to cauterize the open veins. To

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