MORNING TABLEAU BY BRAD G. GARBER

The tin soldier strode with purpose toward the porcelain dog along the horse femur because of orders and the smell wafting over the escarpment of the kitchen while the gopher and mouse skulls gazed forever into the rushing universe having visited and wanting to return but all of the plants are still living against the backdrop of constantly raining cosmic dust glancing off the blue chert and polished thunder egg all colors of her sheets like the shells and beads that surround her body as she steps out in coyote fur and deer antlers and the wooden models reach out to hold each other with solid hands broken at the wrists their Hawaiian sarongs blowing about in quiet tempest all things vertebral moving about her delicate feet deep in carpets of latent fulfillment in swirling global pronouncements of good intentions and death wishes but she keeps the vibrations of waves from distance constellations and nebulae alive in her eyes as she stands naked before the window splitting her vision amongst those of the houseplants and the photographs of every object that she holds in the constant bag slung across her grooved shoulder eating cupcakes and raw vegetables pressing down the keys of the typewriter without purpose but just to feel.