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A cuckoo calls the hours like an old clock, only not the hours we mean.

Silence, a weapon of choice, hung between them, cut through the air.

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

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

When you are a father, want sons. There is some math in this.

Those moments are all I want. I want a life of this. He sighs and I sigh.

The ashes of a human being are not ash. The body burns into wood.

Another year another almanac, a washed-out castle in the sand.

Divorced. Wife living with someone else. Pregnant with his child.

He’s an excellent student. It’s just that . . . he thinks ideas are real.

It’s other things than the like of you would make a person afeard.

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

The old-timer outside the guard station was knifing his own tires.

He picked up the knife I had there, and said he’d kill me if ever I told.

A knife left by an untraced foot marks where to lay the body—fácil.

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

I roam the dirt with the law in my teeth, a widower in search of a widow.

I realized you were my fourth love, and the system was always doomed.

This box is full of wires, energy that moves in ways I can hardly fathom.

He thought about kissing her. Then he decided that she was just lonely.

I wondered if the coyotes and deer were mourning the loss of Steve.

My mother used to cry in church seeing a child walk down the aisle.

May your wife remove her shirt and have an affair with a tornado.

Her body is no longer the source of pleasure but constant pain.

My wife fell in love with a dancer. A woman. I came here to get away.

She sips the coffee and thinks about throwing herself off the balcony.

she was right—hurricane being the name of the feeling, the twist of it.

The raven cocked its black eye, dipped its beak in the red pool.

They wrapped him in bandages from all three kits. The old man watched them.