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A Midwestern man is never without his knife. Half of us carry guns.

The owl was a white that could not be compromised by any other color.

Society was imposing, like something out of an English drama.

I was nineteen and mentally infirm when I saw the prophet Isaiah.

Through all this the sands kept vigil, harboring blood and bones.

Mr. Holt had grown old since Beverly last saw him. He looked weary.

For eight weeks no one heard my voice for eight weeks no one slept.

All night, rain from the distant past. I sometimes waken as a child.

Here they were, two surviving soldiers from opposite sides.

The girl I was could not have imagined the woman I grew up to become.

No one is dead, but you should come back. See what’s become of us.

It was half the Spanish he knew—stop, I have a shotgun.

Truth, it seems, spills from movies and sitcoms in the wires’ wake.

Screaming, the children flew toward the trees in their saucers.

I stuff cotton in my ears, bits of bird’s nest, anything to stop all that talk.

The shadow carves the hours while the Latin inscribes

There was a fish. And then there was the consciousness of robots.

We cling to an exact number of planets, to the Earth Our Mother.

If I’ve told you once, I’ve told you time is a language I don’t speak.

They need to be named, loved, then unnamed to be seen once more.

What better place to write the great American novel than North Africa?

My children, children, remember to let me go, delete my number.

The linebacker grins, but the lines around his eyes tighten.

There was a time when all I wanted was go back. Ask all the questions.

The fires in the hills signify nothing more than their own wonder.

“If the world is becoming a void, the artist must fill it with his soul.”

a clock struck again & again by a granite fist; us masked & rocking

It was comforting to see her suffer the way we suffer, hollowed out.

The ego with which we began filters away as love accumulates below.