the acrid odor

the acrid odor / of a stinkbug’s fear / kitchen spider

skull

skull / on my filing cabinet / still has all its teeth

haiku: “big fake stare / the caterpillar is tired / of being a caterpillar”

throwing his voice so the woodstove warbles—Carolina wren

I take a break from organizing my files

transported to the mountaintop food for eagles

even on land it still steers with its tail

dressed as itself on Halloween

blunders across a pair of painted tulips

a butterfly lands on the ladder to have a taste

its enormous antennae attract a harvestman

the forest floor belongs to the quick bright comma