Climb until every pixel of the sky’s bloom falls directly into your view.
Come home early, don’t (whatever), drive carefully, keep well, see you at Thanksgiving.
When I close my eyes, I see neon. I’m told the baby is stoic.
Readers and writers can talk to each other across times and cultures.
Lovers will conspire, infatuation wrapped around their bodies, breathing in great gulps of each other.
