He opens the book, grabs its spine, and shakes. A heap of words tumble onto the table. Some verbs skitter and roll, ending up lost behind the pepper grinder. The scent of azaleas assails him from the vase. With the long forefinger of Michelangelo’s Cistine God, he stirs the lexical mound. Subjects swirl, encounter objects, and bind. Predicates zip on.
The battleship, the shoreline …. bombards.
Henry, the dog …. eats.
Nowhere is there love because that is one of the verbs that rolled away.
His brow dampens and his hands shake.