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Why does that editor disappear into the bushes?

The hostility always attracts me.

Trick or trust.

Now patience comes up in the pile of chance cards.

Friendships and rowboats.

The scent of sage, of rosemary, of lemon sage, of pine.

Not of pine, of fir.

Paying attention to one thing at a time -- right now, the blindfold.

The star on the threshold of luminance, the body of the unmet woman.

At the Formica tabletop as the storm passes over, looking at the GPS.

More coffee won't do it.

Bait.

Foveal blindness and a piercing headache.

Lying on the threshold of sleep, heart pounding.