This crossbow looks sturdy and easy to aim. Roasted kale with sea salt, in an ochre-colored bowl. Torrential emotion where the radio brays.
The landscape was a bevel upon which . . . The temperature dropped, much to a young trout's pleasure. Oh narrative, what you do to me!
The tangerines had attitude, it was what made them so attractive. Yet Chopin was not the man we had imagined him to be. The pink bucket left out in the rain grew pale as the flesh of an apple.
You you you. Military music, its brash thumping, suggested the party was in full swing. We gazed the sky, the clouds were all gauze.
For a long time after there was only silence. I dreamed of her grave surrounded by handmade signs. He is here then, still.
Or else he wrote. You would not prefer breakfast before you set out? The winter fields were the color of bombast and appeared to go on forever.
At the end of a life there is this perennial presence, a salve. A matter of love, of fuel, of your big and graceful heart.