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Complicity can crease the tongue back on itself like an origami dog.

I’m the shrunken dead like them, here, greening the sky’s bluer potion.

Now the mulch has come between us seven turns, I’ve grown dramatic.

People only see that side of him. He is still a boy, learning to be a man.

Sitting on the edge, I leaned back and fell, wrist-deep, into the body of a deer.

The coyotes are making a kill. Their voices rise through the darkness.

I’m trying to believe I can sense the river when I can’t. Hard to call beauty an affliction, but I think it is what makes my blindness hurt.

You see, I plan on remaining here as the most foolish god in the world.

Pigeons are born knowing where they belong, with whom they belong.

Ideology, all of us inanimate in the face of the onslaught.

Silence, it turned out, was a thing you could buy.

I yell at the boys: “What are you doing! Are you out of your minds?”

What that truth is doesn’t matter, finally, because of your persistence.

We boarded a ferry eager for foaming water rushing toward our feet.

There is a pure fear, in waking somewhere you have not lain down. She runs until her blisters bleed. Then, she runs some more.

Surrender me to shallows and the salt gallop of a rising surf.

We went. We did. We went to Dead Horse but couldn’t stay.

Now he’s grazing my books. The Bible is his favorite so far. He is a goat.

He got his wife off a German farmer, for whom he went to work one day.

Death pointed the gun in his socket and blew off some of his skull.