Most dust is skin, which is pretty disturbing when you think about it.

Our shadows lull us into thinking we’re more attractive than we are.

Crack of pigeon wings against bodies as the hurried flock parts for me.

(and)

Dry needles clog drains every night when we forget how to sleep tangled.

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.