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Up there there’s not a sound except for the wind and the buzzing of bees.

Three rooms, sight unseen, rented from a nurse and her husband.

My body. Stop the air. Travel by stopping, full stop, just there.

The first time we were alone, I knew it before he even told me.

She was thinking about what she would say when the time came.

In Ovid’s tale, the virgin Philomela was raped by her brother-in-law.

From the roof, my husband observed daily a man and a woman having sex.

The fires in the hills signify nothing more than their own wonder.

I hope you weren’t reverse-bookmarking everyone.

The snow on the windshield a tunnel of wings my friend is driving through.

That there are five sturdy red Gerber daisies in a jar on the table.

My father was at an awful disadvantage in a sport where cunning is a virtue.

It was a Tuesday, so they made love. She thought it was a fair compromise.

A dwarf is now crying, he sounds swollen but golden with malediction.

Sue Williams tells a pitch-perfect story outloud, about devotion.

Gramps’ will was a fifty-year diary, all jammed onto two sheets.

She is a stalk, exhausted. She will surround these bones with flesh.

“Look down,” I said, comb in hand. “Let me check behind your ears.”

In that instant, Niel lost one of the most beautiful things in his life.

I walk and I rest while the eyes of my dead look through my own.

Of late a graduate student named Cassius has joined our ranks.

There in the trees, swinging from branch to branch, they saw Pete.

The cottage stood as a metaphor for what she wanted out of life.

He’s got a nice, deep kind of voice. He doesn’t sound redneck at all.

The danger of the shirt—always, every moment, it is so obvious.

The day holds a cup of milk and sits on the couch, legs tucked up.

I can’t see a way out of this. Things will not necessarily get better.

There’s being young and growing old, being here and being gone.