Everyone told us the thing about bees.
Everyone told us we’d move through it
like sand, but no one said what sand moves like.
The house, ours for the night, had a hole
at its center, large as a room.
Only when I pulled back the curtain
was the extent of the damage revealed to us,
the colorful lengths gone to sustain the fiction
more alarming than the cold. In my shoes
there was an indefinite amount of sand
but an absolute number of grains. Everyone
told us there was more than we could count
but you can count, in fact you must. Our grammar
requires counting. We went out and stood
on the precipice we call the coast.
Serena Solin is a poet from New York / New Jersey. You can find her at http://serenasol.in/.
Hollis Johnson was born in 1993 in New Hampshire. He began pursuing photography in high school before attending the Massachusetts College of Art and Design, which he graduated from in 2015. He is currently based in New York City. His work projects uncanny sterility to banal objects and scenarios presented in tableau — snapshots of America drenched in sunlight yet trapped in antifreeze. His images narrate a lyrical world only just slightly askew of our own.