Two-hundred seventy cubic miles of water in living creatures.

A gnat rests on my monitor and flutters its wings now and again.

My hair, unwoven, remembers how it feels to be held in a braid.

Today: Another dreamless night followed by a morning full of dreams.

(and)

Mayo: You’re made of soy but don’t let on to anyone that it’s so.

Orange—I pull your peel off in strips until it lies there: a blossom.

Avocado—why my pleasure at scooping out what’s rotten in you?

My husband and I walked a long way in one direction then came back.

The sky was full of light all afternoon, but it’s getting cloudy now.

I took a nap after our walk and woke up thinking of my father.

I cannot remember a single new detail about my father.

All my memories of him are like dreams, as if he was never real.

I suppose I’ve gotten used to my past being gauzy and dreamlike.

I reweave my past every night and destroy those threads at daybreak.

I can’t help but think of the spider whose web I ruin each morning.

You’d think she’d stop building her webs across our sidewalk, but she doesn’t.

The body does what it’s called to do, and day after day here we are.

My magnetic poetry set promises lots of boring poems.

(and)

Guy on the elevator tells me to have a nice day, so I do.

The sky did nothing at all today except keep itself suspended.

It’s odd that I want to be an old man driving an El Camero.