Insatiable. Seriously. Something (a possum?) dragged a skull (a possum’s?) in through the doggy door and set it in a spot of empty floor where we’d be sure to see it. Scoured and tan as smokers’ teeth, it hissed, “insatiable.” Come August, such effulgence, it’s like showering in a 3-D movie: Gold- finch squads in Speedos yo-yo through the stems, turn hard and vanish peripherally. One cad outside the glass flashed me the shadow running down his ripped finch abs! I was naked and coughed up a bona fide gasp.
