Three Planes Pressing I. The seam between what is scheduled and what insists on being touched is not a line but a ridge— something you could cut your thumb on if you dragged it across the day. II. There is a verb for what soil does when you pull a root from it: it sighs, or it doesn't, and either way the hole fills itself by morning. III. Every box is a promise you are making to a room that doesn't exist yet. You seal the tape and the sound is the sound of a future accepting your deposit. IV. Fourteen small completions. None of them the day. All of them the day.