There are smiles that smell; you can tell ’em for miles. A whale of a smile (you know the kind, stretched in an arc outside the mind).

A hand’s breadth below eyes where no light lies. A big one, that smile: points turned up and back like two ready machetes.

Michael Theroux writes from his cubby-hole home office in Northern California. He is presently shifting from decades of developing and publishing science-based socio-political works toward publication of poetry and fiction. Much more satisfying…