by Laura Kochman

These abstractions grow an impossible lie, and perfection forms slowly, flopping to one

region of pillow, hair awry like a cow tongue

and lathers. I fall asleep. I keep this to myself:

I asked for dog ears. And this: always claim

there's night available for darting words

that sing there's some other version you don't see.

- Cynthia Arrieu-King


This morning I woke up an hour before my alarm and noticed that it's the kind of cold morning I usually miss, sunny but breezy, so chilly your toes go numb. So I sat on the porch and read a whole book. There's a tire repair place across the street, and when I first moved in I thought the sound of bolts and loudspeakers and machines would bother me, but it's become a part of the landscape. I like the thought that while I sit on my porch reading or writing, someone's over there fixing something, and the noises are necessarily strange, growling.