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I’m afraid to say anything or nothing, I’m white & unalterably broken.

A story about what changes and what remains the same, in just six words.

History howls for direction so I remind him how the hero was lost.

For my vacation last summer, I visited the Bateer family in Xiwuqi.

Neither blood nor belonging accounted for my presence in Ghana.

Lebanon’s dreams of a homeland were fading with every rocket launch.

They went to pray for the dead. It was important to shed some tears.

Man is always beginning everything anew, even in his own life.

I’ve never cared for the National Anthem. It’s not a good song.

Chess was a humiliation that hung over him like a leper’s bell.

My daughter’s favorite game is Holocaust. She’s quite inventive.

I was convinced she’d be back in the morning, like the sun.

I was writing copy for cheapo furniture for a crummy ad agency.

The animals are dying. All the beautiful women are dying too.

Since I am in my seventies, it is now or never, and I know it.

Crows rasp from branches, scatter debris across unfinished plots.

He said he had come back to the prison because it was home.

Devanand Simon was twenty-five when the bodies fell from the sky.

Alva knows the storm is coming. The ground is falling away.

I stand within her walls with not a shred of terror, not a word of jeer.

Lost land, this is a song for the scars on your back, for your blistered feet.

I recoil from the certitude that religion can give a person; it’s horrific.

Refuge, Your church is often a house. Your Word is a house.

His fingers traveling through these notes can assuage, I think, all pain.

‘Isn’t this great?’ she said. ‘A bit of peace for ourselves?’ ‘No one could go into a cafe on their own on Christmas Day.’

I tried mightily, but no longer could I ladle those ancient words into the air.

There was a glint of cold red light out there, on the other shore of the lake.

To resist him, I danced how he wanted, but made a mockery of it.

I only feel that here, only here, in this one place, a small rise.