by Sara Peck
As I have developed a sensitivity to your windy night mouth we move in paper bags. I am butternut squash and in your accent don’t mind the act of finding people. Snow could briefly mix with your firewood in the same way you would spoon honey on toast. It’s just like the weather to give you everything.
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With you I waste less apple cores. Maybe it is the fifty percent chance of tomorrow or it’s anger made of tiny flowers. Based on arctic soil there were perfect dead plants like dandelions. Little plants were everywhere pretty. It would have been a landscape if it wasn’t disappearing. We were around and while eating the flowers we were eating the mammoths.