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I screamed every word and waited for the stones to answer back.

The signal’s too remote and there’s a delay before we can start again.

She heard the lowing of cattle, shouting, the crack of whips.

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

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

A political tragedy you won’t lose any sleep over, told in just six words.

To be married is to learn to love, captive in your own new country.

You can dive still see half the Spanish castle, its stone pile a trap

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

From the deck, the burnished red peel of an apple beckons temptingly.

They’re shrieking down Little Round Top, receiving the good girls’ glares.

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

The tension between words and actions, in a six-word story.

It is here I learn the speech of men. The speechless guilt of every swig.

When he bent close to her, his balaclava glowed silvery in the dying sunlight.

Grass grows, birds fly, waves pound the sand. I beat people up.

After my father passed away, I’d go back to stare at the cave paintings.

You know what you’ve come looking for you probably won’t find.

The mechanism and its crank pull us forever closer, you and I.

At Walden Pond, Henry Thoreau clicks like on the “Wilderness” page.

“If you love freedom so much, you shouldn’t think about going back.”

If you can be seen, you can be killed. No-man’s-land is everyman’s land.

My father would have ended my clandestine career on the spot.

We crossed the length of Iran to reach a lake so big they called it a sea.

I turned—a peculiar triumph—as ruin succumbed to the ruin it birthed.

This was his sky, his clouds rucked up over the fields. His country.

How do we heal our savage hearts, foolish wrath gone rogue on any soul.

I want you, you captive, delivered into each other’s territories.

Ring out, wild bells, to the wild sky, the flying cloud, the frosty light.