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They found her where such girls are found. A Manhattan street.

The mountains out your window make Central Park feel rinky-dink.

Here lies the girl difficult to discern. Here lies the girl misanthropic.

Snug in the spell of a cradle rocking, I remember the first time I floated.

This kind of heart-wrenching love was different from all the others.

I’m not the girl for anyone. I can’t just go be a wife.

Eliza Frye

He calmed the animal with song while loosening the slipknot.

The great season for reading is between eighteen and twenty-four.

I could feel the floor’s slight pitch. We were in for a long, long voyage.

He doesn’t have to lie about oatmeal. That’s the way things are for him.

For who can escape one’s twenties or browser history?

My advice would be not to trust. The ocean is just the ocean until I say otherwise.

Ask your mother about babies. Ask her about the baby that died.

As the whorled fingerpad loves Morse, but more so. Worse.

He had come to weavers’ Harris to make some testament.

Our hopes swirled around the act of swallowing a teaspoon of yogurt.

Let the squeamish suffer their fear, let them live without really living.

She’s a blushing peach waiting to be plucked by practiced hands.

It had always been this way. Mothering, for my mother, was a cameo role.

I was free. The first step had been taken, and it was irrevocable.

I lost my pen, I lost my keys, and my hat somewhere on a table.

On Saturdays I listen to folk music, lead a life devoted to exodus.

I can only say I am here searching solo for remnants of Seoul Drive

She sits in her wax like a candle. A woman comes, a woman goes.

Take my hand, lead me by heart over the blind stepping-stones to the edge.

I give you a real blue song the mountains hold under their foot.

I’m just wired hard for hunting, and not so much at all for fishing.

They’re not, and it’s not, and we’re not, and only a god can save us.

Come live with me. We could plant acorns in each other’s mouths.