The author of The Well Body Book is digging up his septic tank.
None of the corners meet but he built this place himself, one addition for each child, each book.
What the wind can’t clean is already.
He always leaves his keys in the ignition, even downtown.
Somewhere under the weeds, rare roses hiding from the deer.
No one’s seen the cat for weeks.
Don’t flip this switch when you flip that.
A shark attacked one of the lean boys near the clam patch, so now’s a good time to get a used board.
Just look around, 12 species of bat.
They take down the road signs indicating where to turn.
2.7 websites per inhabitant.
Everyone was alarmed Martha Stewart would come.
Other people are the most worrisome pollutant.
Think long before throwing anything away.
The Buddhists have satellite for the NBA.
At the dinner party, there’s a salamander in the sink.
They all drink bottled water and everyone makes art, supplies are free, just walk the beach.
Between what’s half-built and what’s falling down is a state of mind.
Then there’s what washes up.