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.
Burdens design their own burdening.
I was wiped out from being a pronoun.
There were questionable assumptions.
I’m stranger than before.
Things here don’t hurt so much.
War can’t explain daylight.
It’s your right not to watch.
The field of dandelions is clover—the lover, over.
Events take place in ellipses.
The aftertaste–an echo spilling syntax’s wire cage.
The day job had the subject scathed, teetering off the stage.
There were kinetic misunderstandings—a fallout of composure.
Someone will fill in the blanks later—the laborious paper chain.
We’re going somewhere like 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.
Even if I mean everything I don’t remember.