eating ivory and scraping teeth on its flats and sharps

somewhere in the loess hills, a patch of flowers resides under a black baseball cap

traversing a world of checkerboard carpets

what grandpa left here

impersistent and inconsequential ponderings cut off like a butter knife to a string of cheese

sleeping dog

february 30th

stones at the bottom of the creek

the shed in our backyard doesn't seem so tall anymore