... of course, when you’re standing naked by the fire, there is no real space for words.
I see the man shooting: dark jeans, white sneakers, and bald as a baby, swinging the pistol wildly, hoping for luck or God to direct his slugs.
Last night was still and quiet when I stepped out for smoke. I had quit months ago. But I wanted to feel that smoke in my lungs again.
I can no longer see his eyes. They are buried behind petals and greenery. The eyes themselves may be feeding the root.
Leaves 