He says, "Sometimes, attended only by my reflection, I squint and feel the drill bit of a headache begin to whir at a low speed behind my right eye, and what I am actually sensing in my peripheral vision is the gravity of interstellar gasses as they flare and contract, condense into a giant planet worthy of a god's name: a ferric atmosphere of rust, lifeless lead at its core, its oceans contending with the orbit of three moons."
"Fair enough," she says, "you're a sensitive guy. But this genre usually begins with a question and not a confession."
Horses gather, graze in high pasture.
On the rain-rich side of the range,
Here, cloud-broken sun.
At a loss for words, I write poems.
The rocks hold heat into evening.