The kettle is trying desperately to boil more water than it can hold, 1.7 liters,

it vibrates the table with its monotone groan.

Sixca says the flowers in the square vase are real, she touches their petals and says you can tell

because they’re wilted, they smell.

The coastline is vast— we are thumbtacks on the rocky hills, our lines cast out to sea. Sinking an anchor is an act of trust,

we believe the anchor will find the seafloor each time with the same length of rope let down.

The kraken will sleep, until he is awoken with fire.

There are wolf spiders perched atop the red seas of Wisconsin.

The kidney beans are the same color as the beets, but the beans do not bleed.

The cat’s back was greasy, brown-red; the harbor cat was not hungry in July.

I burnt my window screen with a blue candle split in two, its pieces held together in my palm.

I saw a sign that said Name it, they’ll do it — princess, robin, hello, cat, sugar, skull.

The stars do not boil in the St Paul airspace. The moon is bright and full. Photos can find my face, but ‘moon’ in the search bar yields nothing.

The kraken will die upon the water’s surface.

The love is intertwined with the horror, forever.

One might propagate pothos in glass, so as to see the white-yellow roots curl outwards, larger and swarming underwater.

Little bubbles form at the top of the kettle and now they soar rapidly towards its plastic cover, hissing.

Nothing smaller than your fist should be recycled.