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Everything comes down to the lightning. Nothing is ever by chance.

Now all I was, all I had ever been, when it came down to it, was a tenant.

Nine day-care children are out for a walk on a winter morning.

The leaves repeat my fall in choruses more ancient than my own.

No one seems to long for what it was before memory gained purchase.

I put my arm around Larry’s shoulders and ask him to pull over.

He will, no doubt, be out of this house soon, headed over to Montgomery.

My husband shovels snow from flower beds back onto the drive.

We roasted mastodons. Designed skewers, ovens, steampits.

I’m alive, Sarah thinks, the slam of his look going all the way in.

Lure, yes, you would know how to catch and clean such a thing.

Elsewhere, perhaps here too, regimes stagger, a congress ends.

“You look like you’re about to fall over,” he says. “Are you all right?”

Suddenly two would dart and clasp one another belly to belly.

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

I want you enough to gnash you into a silence made from pieces of silver.

Regarding the affairs of our Father, your demon is Ennui.

I am veins and breath, the entrance the world passes through.

This is the stupid math of loving another human being.

Through the dark, we say, through the dark: but do we ever really know?

She bequeathed her children a mother who dreams and smiles.

Like lions in cages, women like me dream . . . of freedom . . .

I bled. God didn’t want to hear about it. He said unclean and so it was.

It was only a matter of time before the damp of loss grew within us like moss.

There’s no need to check for a pulse, hold a hand mirror for breath.

I wish I could tell him he’s not going to hell. It would be so freeing for him.

Any good river should be fat, any good ocean should be worth meeting. A child won a hundred dollars by taking it from the tail of a muddy calf. I remember Robinhood too, but that feels like a different thing.