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Solitudeexpand_moreHe didn’t fall in line with our well-established porn-shop hierarchy.
The child at the rummage sale— more souvenirs than memories.
I am left with little Rome for error. I choose wrong, then I revise.
Salt lick inquest skill-step stalks. All flit, vanish: footfall’s fault.
When we move together in the dark I can almost get to him but I turn back.
Sing to your sisters in the water, let your arms and lashes flutter.
On the swings in the park, a woman sounds an off-key minor chord.
Redemption is a broken bar on a cage. Loss is a sky of stars.
The voyage of the best ship is a zigzag line of a hundred tacks.
It’s silly, I know, half-expecting to see Apollo playing lyre to a muse.
You put his hand around your throat but he keeps moving it away.
On the other side of Paris an exhibit depicts their home, which is nowhere.
“Dorm whores” his roommate calls them. They come for the booze.
He finds the note taped to the lid of the toilet: “There’s someone else.”
All my life, I’d been shy, and I wasn’t about to change that.
In high school I walked around with a beat-up copy of Kafka’s stories.
Christopher Woods
She was the idiot who fell in love with some high-class gigolo.
He felt desperate for the rains, mosquitoes be damned.
Perhaps he was not almost sixteen years old, but thirty-five and sick.
Howie and Nadine were confident they’d be among the survivors.
Hearing the baby’s cry, Varka finds the enemy who is crushing her heart.
The willows crack as the startled deer flee into a deeper darkness.
Soledad is the name a woman is given, a sentence a woman must serve.
They know whoever passes on the curving road just by the footstep.
Try to make order in one direction, and things shoot off in another.
Bill Evans’s quiet solo was walking out on unbelievably thin ice.
This has been a good day. First the milestone of getting to page 300.
I was nineteen and mentally infirm when I saw the prophet Isaiah.
How can you love them and yet how could you live
without them?
