Distance throws points pointing to the Subject [of Yellow Feathers].
Lost in the sun—a rogue magician feeds finches from a torn sleeve.
This is where the owl lives at night with baby bats after the crickets and tree frogs’ duet plummets.
In the woods, there are no hands to flutter moonbeams.
In summer sunlight, trees arching under cyan blue are liquid stained-glass.
During late-afternoon brutal heat, the weeping willows drink the pond’s moss surface.
Just out of school for summer, impatient children try to catch tadpoles in butterfly nets.
Camouflaged in the oak’s wishbone trunk, the egret waits for the fish that are thirsty for air to catch the exterior like words.
Scientists claim that without a human cerebral cortex, fish can’t cry, but poets knows that their tears fill the oceans.
Yellow snapdragons are wilting in the garden because we’ve forgotten.
Buddha’s terracotta bowed chin and left ear are eternally injured by winter because we can’t find the proper glue.
The Knight’s Suitcase of Watches drowns his Doppelganger backwards.
Many times the dying want to let go.
If the debacle had been planned properly, we could still do lunch.
There should be a word for someone who blows up consecutive bridges with one damp match.
Fire can be satisfying like a fact.
When you’re looking in the wrong places, it’s time to stop looking.
Compulsive white lying can alleviate boredom [not to mention major hassles], preempt further questioning, and hone the art of fabrication.
The recently-widowed old man counts his money in the freezer.
Someone who might be me watches him through binoculars.
This time, it’s best for all subjected parties to become fluent in silence.
No one else needs to review your emotional scorecard.
No one fathoms the song I bleed when I relinquish windows.