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He had come to weavers’ Harris to make some testament.

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

He was a child. He was dead. He was the shaft of a Long-tailed Astrapia.

It had always been this way. Mothering, for my mother, was a cameo role.

On Saturdays I listen to folk music, lead a life devoted to exodus.

I give you a real blue song the mountains hold under their foot.

Children can be seen as worldly things, not as souls with broken mirrors.

I want him to remember me hanging on his crosshairs.

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.