This book is all about leaves. There is no tree. Leaves don’t drop straight but rather slant, wing, skim. They slip as paper
Before dawn, the desert air tastes different, the click of an old analogue clock moves differently, the cross-stitch adorning it rests differently in its
i. When names come back, they’re rarely those I reach for. It’s the mailman who stopped for a nip, the bride whose purse