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Now he was all out of dreams, out of rage, expectations, and money too.

It’d only take a slight shift to realize his new world isn’t a danger to him.

I found a lodestone & I went to the creek & I buried it in the creek bed

My world must not be made of brief encounters along the neat squares.

You must not be afraid of what waits after death, my past self says.

How can we go on believing each day won’t be the one that flames out?

She whispers all these rocks burning up in the sky can’t be a good thing.

I see the garden far away in itself reflected in the polished spade.

A field. No clouds. Tall grasses bend toward the foreground.

The fish’s eye is mangled, tugged inward; blood leaks from its gills.

The citizens of Aunay believed Pierre Rivière batshit, dimwitted.

The church was clearly the work of a madman driven crazy by the wind.

The Renaissance mastered the illusion of depth on a flat plane.

In the seventies a skier’s mettle was measured by the length of his skis.

Lucy Liu, you show me I can come to fruition and yellow on my own terms.

The notebook’s cotton pages are spangled with axes and sickles.

It’s life that is hard: sleeping, eating, loving, and dying are easy.

Death is our common ancestor. It doesn’t care who we have dined with.

Let us stifle under mud and affirm it is fitting and delicious to lose everything.

We were both up there smoking weed and axle grease, blinded.

Under Saint Peter’s Gate, I put good foot after bad, and derided, I chased.

“She showed me her tits,” said Jimmy. “Bullshit!” said Frank.

A real or imagined boundary, crossed. End of the line. Lined out.

His mooseness was implacable, the light behind him from the trees.

Oar blades, vast swirls of cirrus at dawn. The dead move within us.

All of this leaves me floating in seas of prehistory and indeterminacy.

He folds on himself like a sheet kicked off the foot of a bed.

One makes one’s peace with words in a poem and space in a dream.

It wasn’t the bees I thought to tell but wasps the evening you died.