In between each flap

Of a butterfly’s wings

The air currents recede.

Tides on an old beach.

A pebble now, once a fish.

I am forced to think

Of the ages it’s taken

In the rings of a tree

To build mountains.…

Living in a Shadow

There was a marsh that bounded part of the woods behind my house, on the edge of which, at high tide, Dad and I used to stand and fish for perch and minnows. Birds chirped in the trees and they’d clam up when the eagles came around.

Four Sentences

AT MIDNIGHT the cafe used to be crowded. Lacquered-wood tables, leather-upholstered wall seats, soft jazz, opulence. Men and women shuffling about in high-end suits and dresses. Now it’s empty, and the ceiling tiles fall to the floor, exposing wires and pipes we never knew were there.


When you step on a slug its body acts like an overfilled plastic bag. Eyestalks stretch then balloon and pop, spewing out greenish-yellow who-knows-what all over the bottom of your shoe. Slugs use the slime that coats their bodies to move around.


When I was four years old, we lived in a small house with an oversized front yard. I remember being home one night, and there was something off about that dark expanse. Whatever it was, it left me frightened. An eerie and deep purple twilight enveloped everything outside our bay window.