We don’t know who buries us.
An artist of innuendo she imagines praise in her flight.
The snake had pulled himself mostly under the pallet and was peeking out, flicking the air with his tongue.
Well, if you have lost your mind, blame Union Carbide. Blame the Atomic Bomb.
I could move in any direction or be motionless, disconnected from everything—my life back in Korea, my plans to move home.
