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My father was at an awful disadvantage in a sport where cunning is a virtue.

What my father and I destroyed, I take back—kneeling, among the shells.

He grew a forest of candles and cried when it succumbed to wildfire.

It comes as no surprise that everything is flying toward one point.

Sue Williams tells a pitch-perfect story outloud, about devotion.

The blackbirds in the rain upon the dead topbranches notate the dawn.

The trees were a sign from the devil, a warning of the terror to come.

I open the gift: a small ocelot, its mouth a cave, pearl teeth waiting.

Men veer into the earth and don’t come out. Silent choirs of canaries roost in a forest of chimneys.

If you didn’t listen you would think it was a cry for help or sympathy.

Some women have all the tit out hip out flat of the hand & tone of voice.

Black wings thrash in trees, then strafe me low, my head their devil.

I felt that this maternal oblivion could be the rest of my life.

In time the squirrel who was my friend is my friend no longer.

We went flying without a map as naked astronauts often do.

In that great darkness could I explain anything, anything at all.

We buy a bag of cockles and three crabs, all female, sweet with egg.

He was nervous and ill at ease, but my bearing seemed to reassure him.

Ambition and coincidence had led me to the Royal Theatre.

When the coach called again, Wayne felt his temper slipping.

In the truck’s bed, resting where a dog’s might—the dead deer’s head.

When I saw her, I was witness and weapon both, charging at her.

Each harbored a sense that a family of three was not a real family.

The goose cannot see the North but knows exactly where it lies.

When I cried the tears felt so ineffective next to the ocean.

More and more whiskey was required to knock out the elephant.

Francis too had his time in the wilderness, lost in the mountains.

Judging beauty, which is keenest, Eye or heart or mind or penis?

Delighted to be there, celestial together, as high as you get.