Unicorns in the dark look like everybody. Your grandma could be one, stopping by while we’re moving, with singular intent

The wolves of forestville are scratching villanelles into Walter’s door; the grass meets our feet, embraces, and hides its tears

A unicorn can eat of the tree of knowledge of good and evil and still know nothing. Eve always stabs them with scathing glares

The wolves of heartache don’t love sunshine. They elongate on capsized beaches, howling at the impudence of rust-throated gulls

The difference between a unicorn and a timberwolf lowers herself slowly onto me. The screen lights up another cigarette in traffic