What is it that you don’t see about omniscience, can’t wrap your sight around? Sure, the point of point of view is murky on
At noon a ghost begins threading darkness through a needle’s eye then stitches it all like a field sprouting on lightning, all blind after
Mom’s getting even this evening, going mum. I’m not sure why. I bask in the silence. She plays solitaire, flicks a Queen over, four-
The adoration he declares is like an adult mayfly. His mouth, vestigial, releases air, and I swallow it all. Of course, his reveal is