Balmy has been a memory since my move to Bothell, Washington.

Skin slick with baby oil, I could go slip-sliding at any second.

Wipers on high to remove the fallen pine needles from my windshield.

Fuck sentences for being a dumb excuse to use punctuation.

Lake City: A man sweeps fall into a dust pan, drops it in a bag.

Field mouse flattened on bike trail, its feet the only parts that still look mouse.

Today strangers know me better than I know myself—isn’t that odd.

Eyebrow hairs grow in one at a time, recovering what’s been plucked clean.

Nine trillion fifty-two billion three hundred ninety-four million plus.

I find a foothold on your calf and pretend I’m climbing a mountain.