How the spires of your mind / those pointy needles and thorns / vanished beyond clouds or else / crashed silently to the ground / flattened like cards and what / remained, only, was a flake / spreading like a flood, green / like moss, green like mucus. /

Fletcher had never seen the sea, but, blood flowed from his heart, to his heart, from his heart, to  his heart; a series of waves. Ocean is mother of blood and of hearts.  Lanie had told him: Oh, you must see it. And when you do, lie in it. On your back. And look up at  the stars. The stars are the best part of the ocean you know. Well, apart from the moon, of course, of course. 

Marsh hawk hovers over tarmac, skirring gusts, eying / the grassy edge for bugs, mice, small, defeatable life. / The collective noun for shattered glass is paroxysm, or boutade if you feel fancy / i.e. she forced herself to walk barefoot across the boutade of stemware / i.e. she left the house without cleaning up the paroxysm of mugs /

Earth spins, blessed by corn snakes / and measured dripping snails. I looked / at my watch in math class, and knew: / the secondhand notches closer to my death / when I’d lose my lover, the world.

from the topmost elevation of my heart / rate, i can see a future where the rush of / intention guides me toward presence more / than the tide of held blood, fast and / smooth, poises me to take an action /

Mabel surveyed the dining room table with a sense of satisfaction. It was perfectly laid with a crisp linen tablecloth, her finest china and a crystal cut vase filled with lilies from her garden. The only fly in the ointment was the thunderstorm raging outside. It had started to brew yesterday evening under her watchful gaze. Black clouds rolled in this morning and it was not long before the rain started to cascade down, ruining her plans for an alfresco lunch.