Via gmail chat, a discussion of the 33rd psalm.
She laughs so merrily, so uncontrollably, that you can almost forget that she's hurt.
The hour comes. Time to put the books away.
In a bookstore cafe, against a backdrop of music and the grinding of a blender, two people argue over what makes good poetry. At a few points throughout they state the importance of taste and personal inclination, even as they dig beneath each other's feet for something else.
A crushed dreamcatcher lies at the foot of a short flight of steps leading to a drug research and rehab clinic; the net and feathers are crumpled.
Just as we think she's finished unpacking the food from the suitcase, she remembers a side pocket full of chocolatey treats.
Streams of hot cold pain run up and down my arm, shimmering in my fingers, pooling at my elbow.