As a child she was taught to classify at the breakfast table.
A leak in the calendar.
No concert in the gallery.
We bond over pastis and an unwavering belief in the gesture of unveiling.
One day goes undiagnosed, then the next.
She said she wanted to compile an index of the present.
A platter of stubby candles dipped in toffee cream.
Is there any ending that isn’t trivial?
No collective hydro scheme.
A countess spends an afternoon choosing between her two suitors, Music and Poetry.
A single slide on the Palladian powerpoint.
First the music and then the words.
I invent an instrument for gauging suspense in psychological thrillers.
Animals in a revolving door.
Do I desire to escape my body or to understand how to patch it.
I was curious about territory so I pissed by the footpath.
At this point, some directors bring down a curtain and there is an interval.
She orders hot cocoa in the drawing room.
A wagtail on the gable rake.
A season buckled with potential.
Choppy air, and an epicurean confusion of how with why.
I howl at my sentences and they chafe at an upper limit.
A bird, and other wind instruments.
I was told to sleep with my heart elevated, to let the futurity drain.
How often a path is just gravity, and then some.
I’ve made peace with rocky perception.
Green rays for all your oceans.
In the midst of familial fog I pick pinecones to anticipate an occasion.
If you think a tree lacks imagination, take a look at a self.
A garment promoted to a raiment.
Somewhere, an architecture quickens.
Or, every log is a backlog.
They burned the lyric to force its renewal.
A brief interlude on someone else’s channel.
Your step in the forest synonymous with tripwire, some zoic cadence screeching intruder.
That sweet aroma is a distress signal.
If you don’t know this by now.
A garden is a tree zoo.
No additional text.
Was a pronoun always an aide memoire.
I—Monsieur Taupe—am the prompter, the most important component.
Ode to the windswept husband.
Posture like a cypress.
Outside animals annul.
Inside animals enamel.
The wind comes apart in sedimentary flakes.
I forget my lines.
A hop-skip-jump of recollection.
Will unanchored non-sequential utterance exhaust expression or will it pique.
My glittering career at the egg-and-spoon relay.
Anyone could become accustomed to being waited on.
A blank page misattributed.
The contents of a house splayed out on the lawn, clover deep.
Sheela na gig, my feminine touch.
Every door opened is a wound, dehisced.
A menagerie of imitation snacks on itself.
Why We Miss the Pre-Agricultural Matriarchy.
Clickbait fanning an aura.
A raven shares my problem.
A hot mustang carouses.
A maenad becomes overwhelmed by her rod of giant fennel.
What we unlearned in 2013.
A dish of blue lichen appeals.
To irk an exhibitionist.
Invoices I have been.