Explore

It was spring: the field, a botanist’s mirage of wild flowers.

We are good at thinking we can stay. We are good at finding hurt.

Design a way to kill those rats, and do it now, Fiori, do it now.

I wouldn’t know what to do with the body, gills pumping like an accordion.

it’s hard not to be obsessed with your own shadow I don’t tell him

She had yellow cat eyes that she insisted were also blond.

The next time we made love, I looked for the fox looking down at me.

A whippoorwill called, a lonely voice among the cedars.

The lion was still near them, stalking. Crazed against its cautionary nature.

Across sage flats, tundra, and bleeding hearts, she escapes.

Blame the juncos outside. Sopranos in one tree, altos in another.

No one was awake and I was hungover young as clean as a piano.

You have your apron on under your coat. We’ve got each other.

Yes, Sweetness, a white shadow shimmers on the X-ray of the future.

You and the cat wish I were baking pumpkin pie and we were happier.

I survive my small wounds—and I’m still an old man.

A bunny the size of a teacup feasts in the clover, ears lit up in salt-pink light.

“Ki o tsukete!” she called, and he knew the words. Be careful.

The damn dog has been brainwashed. He doesn’t know
us anymore.

It was the way of the world: everybody wanted someone else.

I read an article and learn that the gloomy octopus has three hearts.