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I watched to see how the others lived, not knowing I was the Other.

My wife had time to form a thought: I have killed my daughter.

There are parts of a man that are born again with each of his daughters.

I must never go to the garden without a heavy stick or a corn-knife.

It ends with a flourish like smashing a glass in the fireplace.

Love is the difference between a full life and an empty one.

Try never to repeat rhymes, not once in an entire show. It tires the ear.

I’ve found that love has provided my life’s happiest moments.

Love is not something you wait for passively, but a practice.

A friend of my father’s once told me, “You’ll never be a writer.”

I’m a big fan of then. A novel needs a lot of thens.

I make peas and argue with a wall. Something gets stuck like that.

She knew Jim would be a terrible husband. They’d murder each other.

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

The graffiti suggests the most essential story of New Haven.

Just sugar cubes and a crop for you. Salt licks to smart the tongue.

Your jumps are numbered. It is better to be a bird without altitude.

I’ll leave a trail of crumbs as I descend into god knows where.

Standing there in our small shadows, we discuss the ways of the dead.

The Village wasn’t really a village. No walnut trees. Just cut flowers.

How many gods do you believe in? How many good men?

Two animals, doe-eyed, slick across the road into the femur of the night.

Logic is such an elegant weapon; and religion, such an easy target.

Once upon a time, a couple wandered in a glass forest, hand in hand.

Later in the pale of dawn your hair brushed across my forearm.

As a shadow I arouse you will you believe the truth of my mouth.

The fog’s sheen is a mirror: my mother sees the terrain of the future—