My new blazer rests coldly on the back of a chair.
The Milk-Eyed Mender casually warbles downstairs.
A family of snakes escapes from his collar.
Ben is at the door.
Be kind to those who might spy on you while you sleep.
This postcard was sent from Belfast on November 23rd.
Precariously the water tower moves nowhere.
The only phone call I got all day was a mistake.
Buses, helicopters, cars, but no ambulances.
The boy in the postcard was pouring ink into a model swimming pool.
Dried shoots shake in the wind like flat icicles.
I’ll never get over that word: icicles.
I couldn’t appreciate grapefruit until I was seventeen.
Each time the quick curtain of her eye falls something retracts it.
Steve’s getting married.
The way a tree forks has nothing to do with dividing the air.