that the brushes on the bottle-brush bush could not be redder, that a hummingbird looks in through the window screen, that both my arms
soft rain on the pavement of a city street fast cartwheels foot-falling down a narrow hall bottlecaps shaken in a tin my dog’s paws
But when I hear the pink fingers trailing across the silverware inside the drawer for the silverware, tracing concentric fingerprints pressed by my fingers
The cat’s brown coat, but not the tongue he licks it with. Winter light, a slick of simmering gray. A petal from the