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While they stand in line Robin leans into his chest. They don't talk.

A whippoorwill called, a lonely voice among the cedars.

I open the door and Eleanor is leaning against the wall, paper white.

I never actually existed. I didn’t know it at the time, but it’s clear as day.

“I don’t think I can do this,” she says, after a pause. “I don’t trust you.”

I make a point of smelling the lilac every day that first week in May.

Because I can love every small thing.

Appearance does not really appear, but it appears to appear.

When the doctors’ voices started turning to noise, I didn’t fight it.

No one was awake and I was hungover young as clean as a piano.

Dexter was unconsciously dictated to by his winter dreams.

I stop and look at the sky. Suddenly: orange, red, pink, blue, green, purple.

He begrudged how money poured through her hands like water.

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

A bunny the size of a teacup feasts in the clover, ears lit up in salt-pink light.

Our eyes searched for the island, but ahead there was only overcast.

The end of a relationship, through four six-word stories.

At first he was mortified. Another person harboured ill will towards him.

“Fuck you,” I said, but it was hard to say it with any meaning.

As a child I wanted to behold the elusive squid, the patience of eels.

You slouched on the couch, naked, in front of the air conditioner.

Dr. Zee knows his son is struggling up out of some chemical fog.