Daniel Nadler

Your husband is stretched out on the ground as if he were listening for something. Ask him to come back to the table. Whatever was there is now here.

You hear the sun in the morning through closed shutters. As you sleep the early sky is colored in fish scales, and you open your eyes like a street already lined with fruit.

A lamb blinking over a patch of earth does not know what you have done. Feed it, and it will eat from your hand as if you wore the skin of a washed grape.