Everyone slows down and locks the rearview mirror when the ambulance arrives.
Demise crosshatches the body’s sleeves.
How funny I look without skin.
Lacking the memory of other cells, the cell is lonely.
Inconsolable, the violas slip the page.
A gamelan can be ordered on Amazon.
No one called once I gave up color.
It was an exercise in inflection before I straggled here.
Metaphors and allegory atrophied.
I lost my hypothesis, so I opened the divine with a can opener.
I didn’t want to spoil.
A new language can’t be created overnight, and I was tired of being a pronoun.
Burdens design their own burdening.
The one who overdosed stopped looking for God.
There were questionable assumptions.
The cornfield collected us in silk.
Sleep doesn’t even know.
Idiosyncrasies reproduce exponentially.
I’m stranger than before.
He said you’re a sheet of glass in a crowded city.
He said bring the small turtle because it knows how to hide.
If we see each other at the border, don’t say anything.
War can’t explain daylight.
It’s your right not to watch.
It’s more difficult to play dead than you think.
Tell the children they’re statues but can’t sculpt their own until the game is over, until they return to school.
Tell tomorrow you’re not as selfish as yesterday.
Protect the unrolled parchment from incendiary material.
Things here don’t hurt so much.
Grief is a different color, and sadness doesn’t own a house.
Strangely, one arranges another.
I raised my hand to ask questions, but everyone left for happy hour, somewhere less confusing.
I’ve forgotten how to spell.
No one will find me with autocorrect.
The field of dandelions is clover—the lover, over.
Events take place in ellipses.
The afterlife smells like ghosts, an echo in syntax’s wire cage.
The ghosts advise, go slow down the corridor, climb over your missing feet.
The day job had the subject scathed, losing stage.
Here you don’t need your stolen teeth, a lucky rabbit’s foot, all that trigonometry.
There were kinetic misunderstandings—a fallout of composure.
You should have changed the batteries in the fire alarms.
Someone more qualified will complete the laborious paper chain.
There will be semantic delay.
Plato, what did Socrates say?
Hemlock was his choice.
We’re going somewhere—trains with no passengers.
The breathtaking panoramic scenery—volumes of photos no one prints or saves.
At the next stop someone might say something like Bedouins read stones, pitched stairs escalate, or the mannequins split our dreams.
Leading a camel to water doesn’t make anyone noble.
Even if we sing in languages we can’t comprehend.
At the next stop I might feel like going home.
At the next house, I may mean everything I don’t remember.