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We might have seen it coming, had we not had our eyes fixed on it.

Albert came to her rescue. “The Great Gatsby’s our religion,” he said.

I have been enshrouded for months by the weak winter sun.

Bright rot laces the air, light sharpens each leaf. On our way to fallow, fire.

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

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

The gravest season and least understood is more than pale heads

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

The nights she and Wade have sex she can’t do so without feeling guilty.

Dexter was unconsciously dictated to by his winter dreams.

I feel unnatural, half a human face smothered in deep light.

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

The world smells brand-new crisp the way an ax cuts fire wood.

The slow-falling leaves contain the space of the story I’m pursuing.

There were so many tired, frayed words thick in the air around her.

At Pompeii the little dog lay curled and did not rise but slept the deeper.