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“Leaving for war, Hayes wept. He didn’t just cry; he wept...”

Is that coffee you have, or the hell of fusion in your cupped hands?

Is anybody out there? Nobody answered, and I felt archaic as prayer.

The pen is mightier than the sword in the fretwork of a poet’s language.

Condemned to an easy life balanced on the suffering in another land.

Arrows shot by the halt at the lame,
 Opinions come and go just the same.


If life was exchanged, who is to say it flowed one way?

Think how you move, how a room changes with your smallest breath.

Let’s walk down to the river, bless the paper boats and turn it all into wine.

My mother is queen of buttons. She shows off the prized ones.

She commands, under her breath, You must be the son.

Beyond her ampleness, he stands a small man vanquished.

I wanted my love to be everywhere, then love began to bite through me.

I have so many T-cells I’m afraid of forgetting their names.

Flesh is temporary, memory a tilting barn dismantled nail by nail.

My soul is simple; it doesn’t think. Something strange paces there now.

You linger in the dimming aftermath, grayer and fainter than a breath.

In my head at least, you thrive, you die in this mix of ghost and gone.

But we do despise beauty. We connect it with softness and immortality.

Charlie wasn’t Lena’s first love, but he counted on being her last.

“Oh, Jesus.” It’s the greatest shame since 1929’s stock market.

Everyone they pass is consumed by some desperate interior story.

My mother’s house was packed, painted, put up for sale—sold.

Help me, please help me, is the beggar’s refrain on the F train today.

Now he chuckles with the sea, stitched within its timeless jive.

Yes, Eylon thought, he lied to Cath. Lied about his day, about the risks.

He has his hands on Nii’s throat, and this time I do not stop them.

“I don’t care how tired we are. I’m not not having sex on my wedding night.”

“The kiels take extra time, but then you know your meats. Questions?”