“The palms still stand. Crisp silhouettes against a hazy sky, tall as guilt and just as thin. They line the driveway in symmetrical grief, as if trying to offer shade to something that can’t be cooled. Everything here is sun-bleached and wind-chapped, held together by spider webs and memory. The breeze tastes like eucalyptus and the air smells like dust that used to be skin.”

— Noncompliant: A Sunglassed Elegy From Camarillo