A mug, Half-filled, slanting on the couch. Call it ten degrees off of center. The coffee stays true.
The green crayon’s claw marks. A figure eight crop circle imprinted on the bathtub wall. Is it any wonder why you started coloring the tile?
A camera could be a living thing: eye blinking in time to any number of different actions – the laugh of a child or the course of the sun in his way.
“He is a bird,” you say. Not so, but He does ride upon wings. I’ve decided to put up some random notebook poems. Here’s one, from a church service on the Holy Spirit.