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It’s another thing to have the beloved hesitate, silent, on the porch.

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

We need a silvery stream that banks as smoothly as a plane’s wing.

The elevator inside him begins to fall with dizzying speed.

A bird is chirping outside, the world is carrying on, and she is in it.

When she sleeps, Shakespeare writes one more sonnet we’ll never read.

He knows what she’s seeking, and he knows she won’t find it.

Why kill something so mild-mannered, entertaining, and sociable?

Let me stay here, in the thick of the sweetness, just a moment longer.

I believed in department stores the way I believed in Germany.

I opened my eyes and they burned; I closed them and saw my father.

I could not tell what visions were vanishing in the dying slave.

Like a ghost, he appeared at the entrance of his hermitage.

They do good things for us, the bats. But we do not want them there.

A collection from San Franciscan photographers Eszter and David.

My father stood up, unable to choose which one of us to kill first.

Pete gazes into his mother’s soul and finds a piece of smoldering coal.

She has wings of rouge on her cheekbones, her beak blood red.

At first my dad was optimistic that he could be a one-armed farmer.

Maybe she was a stereotype now: a single woman with a cat.

Apparently this was something he had to tell her with his clothes on.

I asked for water, and he shot me a look of henpecked resentment.

My father was neither kind nor strong in his bruising.

Your bookself will appear to find you trivial, its nose deep in some tome.

Nobody knows where I am, Ned thought. No one in the whole world.

When we’re all together like this it feels like hope is a possibility.

Our father turned to me and said, Why does he sound like a girl.

I fell asleep wondering to whom the tree might have been writing.

Here’s a first, he said, some nutbag wants to dig the grave himself.