That book you loved—the heavy one listing your human words and what they mean— it’s still where you left it all those years ago:
Things you can’t control—love, weather, grace, time. My favorite cliché is race against time. Like an undertow, her phone sucks my teen daughter into
In Madagascar, the vanilla smells of old books traded across the street from the bar that drank my college rent. Volatile compounds hide in
Two heartbreaks ago you said, “no trash heaps, no more” but the shopping mall’s much better in the afternoons when everyone else is working,