If every present
is possible, how can we have eyes to see?
You ask, Could we have coffee? No, my truth, I’m still on this side.
The five notes, slowly, over & over, and with some light intent.
Each year we fail to imagine how the days will blanch, the air will harden.
My father made me watch softball on ESPN 2 to help me stay alive.
God is there between things, sitting at his own left hand.
His spirit shone fiercely, shaming the chasm by illuminating it.
The social-media world was ablaze with his daughter’s bagunça.
We say America you are magnificent and we meant we are heartbroken.
His beginnings, his genesis as a writer, and the fateful connections between life and art.
She is eight years old and doesn’t recognize the word divorce.
Instead of attunement, I was given a pair of size 6 Toughskins.
Boys called him Lorry Raja and imitated his high-stepping walk.
Every room came furnished half-real & dead like mirrors on skin
Knowing that it will end i saw myself again at the fair popping balloons
Albert came to her rescue. “The Great Gatsby’s our religion,” he said.
Gramps’ will was a fifty-year diary, all jammed onto two sheets.
All diseases were conquered. Death was an adventure for volunteers.
If only to hold on by opening lord give me this one eighth day
Here’s the world, sweetheart. One word as small & large as a father.
A boy in a dress vanishes beneath the sound of his own galloping.
Don’t be afraid. The end of the road is so far ahead it is already behind us.