The charts told me he’d be the one to seal my heart with him, that we’d rampage together, articulating the living proof and all that comes with sitting on rocks, raising the soul up from the rectum to the sky. But I felt the beat of the automaton in the darkness—he was howling for want…

There is a minnow in the dog’s bowl. He turns and turns unendingly, flashing silver  when broadside to the setting sun, finding each next curve as though new to it.  Particles of sand in his wake. Grass. Going in circles. Next to the dog bowl, a camp chair is weighed down by someone. Their right…