Things that Give one a Slight Frisson

A crumpled glove, fingers skewed, lying beside the road.
Doppelgangers, puppets, and possums.
Infinite reality and infinite descriptions of reality, and one infinity smaller, just as the odds are smaller than the numbers.
In the corner of an old cabinet, a bleached peach pit.
The life greater than life that beckons.
On the sidewalk, a dead umbrella.
Head lights hard on my tail, then they back off. I turn. He turns. I turn again. He turns again. I go tingly. I take my last turn. He goes on into the mirror.
A . . . . Z