I could believe in dark trees, the fire sighing as it goes out under coals, wet and shrunken. I could believe my mother knew nothing all those years she sat at the mahogany table grading her papers, that the wall phone waited silent, without news of medical advances that could have spared Father from a life of being a loner, being teased. I could believe in his thick lenses, glass spun from sand and sugar. Tonight I gaze through the window after dinner, through the thickest portion of the pane, where distortion lives on, happily ever after. I see that wildflowers grow in selfsame shapes above the tree line.
Clouds are animals.
Each foreign country, every riparian coastline contains the same area, peninsulas, deltas, and fjords sharp as fractals opening their complicated patterns. Each new form blooming like a curse. All rights reserved.