You know how I turn on the burner underneath the teakettle each morning and then return to bed until it whistles? I turned on the front burner instead of the back.
On the front burner sat the cast-iron skillet caked with food from two nights previous. Potatoes, tomatoes, onions; I discovered after the dinner party -- half a bottle of red.
We chat through email. No CO2 detector. The cat tries to bridge the gap from the table to radiator. Nuclear power. Satellite images.
In your wake is a postcard, its front image a map.
I don't ask, but did you mean to forward the details about an event to me?
According to a security institute --
Daily trains. We choose architecture, art. We mistype words: "feel" for "fell."
When you're homeless, you buy socks. The time it takes before --
I forgot to serve the bread.
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