Summers unfurl razor leaves, tiny fingers grasping soil. Stomata, open like punctures in a time card, convert light to sugar, netted in a loop
When you get all the way down to the sub-atomic level, the location of any particle is not governed by laws but is merely
in the middle of an hour behaving well, a sinkhole opens under me. It wasn’t; then it is. It is the sorry sibling of