Four nights into fall, moths scatter from streetlights, regroup on dark objects.

I just sucked some licorice into my mouth: It felt a little strange.

Dude, not woot!, w00t!—you have to substitute zeros for the letter O.

Bones into glass, a bird thwacks the bedroom window, lands in weed-flowers.

The lovebird with a clutched egg is having a far worse day than I am.

I saw no birds today but walked from window to window, expectant.

Most of the time poetry is better when no poets are involved.

Night at Juanita Beach Park: Bats overhead are darker than shadows.

Today: Sent a meaningless postcard to someone I don’t care about.

Think of all that you can write in seventeen syllables, then write it.