Every morning, the children dig holes for their parents. This is both necessary and beneficial: the kids need to dig and the parents have to be buried.

I cannot begin to list all the ways this conversation can go downhill from here, so I hang up the phone quietly.

I’m on Discord but I don’t know how to do anything.

the old once new me

Some of the elderly men and women are coming forward....

The oranges are dreaming that they have turned to apples.

My God. It never ends

The instant you remember gratitude with enough focus to spring free its power...

The falling may continue// forever.

The truth about the bird and the snake is this. They are dead. And me? I cannot stop thinking about them.

For two days, I bashed out words with grimacing fingers, wrenching images from my whining consciousness – a weak, lumbering, uninspired piece – and now for what?

Matilda went wild at sixty-five. Legs left unshaven for the first time in fifty years, hair still and proud, knotted with forgetting. She’d roam the streets at night, a traveler without design. Matilda was a gardener of sorts, digging up all previous assu

I am the marigold wheel no one can understand, the menace your grandfather warned you about. Yes, yes, that last phrase was overkill...

We laugh at them, parading two-by-two, the elephants rolling tail to trunk across the makeshift gangplank, wide slats flexing under their sway. A pair of snakes contemplates gulping a pair of frogs and their clandestine movements stun a cricket and his mate. Birds squat…

Earlier that morning a tree in the yard had filled with starlings, and on the way home after lunch, the sky held planes that looked like starlings, floating together.