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Will you bless us, who are so in need of blessing? The world tires.

So long as there was money, the girl felt established, and brutally proud.

The dark creatures are still, yet they give life to the whole mountain.

Lying in wait, set to pounce on the page, are letters up to no good.

When she passes you, her name is a bright blue phrase on your tongue.

The blood had been soaked up in sawdust—“this is hell.”

It was up airly and down late with him, and the loom never standin’ still.

The eyes looked into his own with a meaning, a malign significance.

Here was rot and immemorial night. And death. Death above all.

The face of love is a poem I am writing in an air-conditioned room.

This storm scares me. A foreign climate occupies the land.

I ask if you are all right until you can be nothing but not all right, not okay.

Of course he escaped. He would be the one. My legendary brother.

For two days I’ve been weeping over a nineteenth-century novel.

I forgot to detail that the jumper leapt from beside the hanging Monet.

Mafia didn’t like me, except for the tickling game. It went like this.

“Nothing does you so much harm as being in disgrace for lying.”

Every dawn you’d toss the feed, your hands faithful to the good work of rising.

She must know she was a mistake, what they call now a surprise.

Years they sought her, whose crew left on the water a sad Welsh hymn.

Each night I curl my body around a small piece of silence.

It swims for a while, but abandons itself, slips from its own grasp.

We chose to stay in the brutality of that night, even as the girls walked away.

The pain lithified to numbness, and she recalled the time of his courtship.

Ma didn’t believe in slapping. It was what common people did.

Sing so dogs bark, oxen bolt. Sing so a girl walks out on her lover.

What’s a man supposed to do when his best friend is a falcon?

Flies at our dinner—Won’t eat much sings the tiny ghost of my mother.

Little footage, this plot, where it thrived at first, then ghosted away.

We’d hit something in the dark which—bang!—was there and gone.