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Hemingway’s Royal typewriter sat atop a volume of Who’s Who.

The Morgan nosed her for another carrot. She petted his neck. She had loved to canter.

My stepfather has gone out with a blanket to place over a doe’s body.

I want to step out into sun to scintillate for waves to come and spray.

The mountains out your window make Central Park feel rinky-dink.

Here lies the girl difficult to discern. Here lies the girl misanthropic.

Rays burst from behind the mountain, sweep the broad beach.

Those are the horses you win on, the ones that want to kill you.

The horse is beautiful and would rather be doing anything else.

He calmed the animal with song while loosening the slipknot.

For who can escape one’s twenties or browser history?

Each year we fail to imagine how the days will blanch, the air will harden.

I only divine the cat’s location when I hear its small cough.

Let the squeamish suffer their fear, let them live without really living.

It’s a small deposit, but I’m putting my faith in reincarnation.

There’s something I saw at the race meeting I can’t figure out.

When I was a woman, I was all reason and my reason was unjust.

I’m just wired hard for hunting, and not so much at all for fishing.

Instead, I touch: The powdered organ. The thief-shaped hole.

What if white men became supremely good at making up for our past?

Make haste, my love, I am redrawing the scale of escape.

“I want to stay in real yurts,” I said, “not yurts for Westerners.”

Every room came furnished half-real & dead like mirrors on skin

Bad luck, like the white-scabs disease, can infect others.

It lay slumped where they’d dragged it, a fright of an animal.

Bodies, moths, destroyers. Fear like finding a bullet in a snowman.

I decide it’s as good a place as any to stop, pant & smell the roses—

Under pillows of snow, the creek shushes the sharp architecture of ice.

A landscape values people at the level that it values other things.

A boat-tailed grackle counts the passing cars from the traffic light.