I can taste the thing that is tasting me.
I wait here, listening to the words here and there that flutter out through the screened windows...
... 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 