Animal eye contact.
A bouncy ball in the palm of the hand.
The crust of the earth is a place to pray from.
Four nights in Los Angeles.
How to locate the Garment District on any major American city’s map.
How to walk toward the river and stumble upon the perfect maraschino cherry.
Islands bobbing in oceans of bubble tea.
Judge Judy gifs all day long.
A koala bear's clutch on life.
Little sun rays in your irises.
My mind at ease.
Now we turn toward the wet beach sand, the cold sea glass.
Other people’s dogs at the park with ice skaters in the background.
We walk out of a parking garage and into a New England snow storm.
Quivery elbows, arrows, armpits, lipsticks.
A roll-up of all the real fruit flavors.
Mashed sweet potatoes.
The morning after the moon.
Undeniable love (write it: got it).
Vesicles, an ice breaker.
Waking up a year from today.
The dictionary transforms into a xylophone at this point in the narrative.
You in the summer.
A zeach (a peach you unzip to eat).