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Close mist around window. I attempt gender. Deposit each letter.

Their hands were acting as airfoils, producing lift, not drag.

I was constantly being torn between belief and disbelief in his narrative.

“Silence can be difficult, and we’re silent the whole time,” she said.

You knelt down to kiss her, avoiding, of course, the wound at her brow.

Many people remarked upon the similarities between the flags.

Stories are places to live. We live in stories. What we are is stories.

In medical school they forgot to tell me about caring and feeling.

Like an idiot, I was flattered at first to get honorary degrees.

There are elephants in the hall looking for their mothers.

“Who you kiddin? There’s no middle class anymore, we’re all just poor.”

Lufthansa lifts off under me. The set sun disinters, a fanned cinder.

I’m on the verge of a breakdown. So I might as well have another child.

The rich man adorns himself and the elegant man gets dressed.

He was regarded as a visionary and a fool in almost equal measure.

Here we were, seventeen, trapped by the sheer number of bodies.

Her voice smelled like an orange, though I’d never peeled an orange.

I’ve made a rigorous effort. But it’s been hard, this hug embargo.

Writing at night just feels . . . sneaky. There’s an outlaw quality to it.

There is the ghost of a child in me. It longs to die, so afraid of living.

Nine day-care children are out for a walk on a winter morning.

I dream we ride together in a Subaru to the county fair.

An ironic story about skepticism and education, in just six words.

She leaned back to accommodate the sweet delirium of his hands.

I put my arm around Larry’s shoulders and ask him to pull over.

Clayton always imagined getting laid in the rooms of his dad’s motel.

My daughter cried her tears; I held some ice against her lip.

Lorna was like a sculpture carved by some Greek out of marble.

He told his father he wanted to make art pictures, not lousy mobster stuff.