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The fish’s eye is mangled, tugged inward; blood leaks from its gills.

The Renaissance mastered the illusion of depth on a flat plane.

Death is our common ancestor. It doesn’t care who we have dined with.

Forgive me, please, for continuing to believe that roses are beautiful.

He folds on himself like a sheet kicked off the foot of a bed.

Something basks and gathers in the dark parts of an open ear.

You can call it karma if you can see that far, or joy-begets-sorrow.

Better to be a bird without altitude. Or to get out of the game early.

I was once a rider of mastodons, a waitress showing skin.

Our crowns are made of dead hair and get swept out with the trash.

The men here don’t know where to place me, call me exotic grail.

Because grass sprouts from the stump’s rings like tiny soldiers.

For a moment I had the delicious feeling of fitting in without even trying.

Our culture cherishes a fantasy of a certain writerly existence.

If it were fiction, calling the place Newtown would be too much.

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

I hear Tchaikovsky when I close my eyes and pretend I’m flying.

There was an intimacy to the sound that thrilled me.

I was always being left behind in the mud, a bandage around my eyes.

Salt lick inquest skill-step stalks. All flit, vanish: footfall’s fault.

Throwing the El Camino into drive, he roared down the mountain road.

The alert says Warning: Wild Exotic Animals Loose.

Like a bird with a broken wing I will smudge the line of the hopscotch.

You have to be three times better than the white kids, at everything.

I saw myself, and for the first time, I didn’t look away.

The sex in these fantasies was always a product of love.

I read cookbooks the way I do poetry, with a willingness to be transported.

We have mysterious inclinations. No one can explain it to us.