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End of October, days recede quickly into night. Leaves fall in slow motion.

I grabbed him by the face and told him life only comes to a person once.

The places in between places are like countries themselves.

you always have something in store for me. bad news.

The celebration stops, like a sparrow hitting a sliding-glass door.

The year we left the reservation a white boy gave me a trash bag.

Hello, women rising up against toxic men. I salute you. And I apologize.

home is his hands, our bowls, so many gay fridge magnets.

She wags her index finger so furiously that I’m certain it will snap off.

I walk across the fields with only a few young cows for company.

Some goals: stop buying jeans. Stop being angry at mom/dad/sister.

Mother had always told me that everybody loves a self-absorbed ass.

Someone’s walk is pretty much who they are, from the beginning.

Since the accident she lost her hold on the world and never got it back.

Your hands along her spine. Her hips unfolding like a cotton napkin.

a clock struck again & again by a granite fist; us masked & rocking

She asked, “What’s the weirdest thing you can do with your body?”

His mother wasn’t there to meet him at his stop. She never was.

There was a shout, then a shot fired. I pressed the shutter again and again.

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

It is the night of whores and monsters, but without the killings.

There isn’t a nice Jewish boy in sight—not that I’m looking for one.