His gullet is a gulch gone dry.
Dream is imagination holding court.
She conjures the ferocity of foxes.
They seem mortal enough when I read about them.
His words bump against her ears and ricochet off.
On the other side, my good luck fizzled.
Appliquéd butterflies left her cold.
Art has its own endorphins.
No more fanged maws chomping at my heels.