He glowered even as a little child. Maybe because he has your bad eyes.
He was trying to seduce me with his history, which was mine as well.
For a month after 9/11 Bella wept through all her appointments.
Her bra is black, her breasts full and white. There is too much flesh.
“We’re going because your father is asleep and he won’t know.”
You know you’re in trouble; finally someone is gonna let you have it.
I thought it was beauty alone that gave significance to life.
Take this man, Stepan. His deep mellow voice soars in my heart.
I hold out hands, empty and poor like a beggar by the temple door.
We see how tired you are as you lean on your rifle or your shovel.
The people flocked to witness the execution of Ja’afar and his kinsmen.
Young people have a gift for reviving freshness of language.
A charmed sequence of words. The jangle. The strum.
Between me and the sky is a screen door and a whole mess of wind.
He will be unable to resist his manias for symmetry and completion.
At a red light he touches his cheek. The stubbly skin is sensitive, febrile.
A stunning collection from fourteen emerging photographers.
Surely a million mothers and school teachers can’t be entirely wrong.
No parent has yet been born who can save a child from childhood.
“I—I am Martin Eden,” Martin began. (“And I want my five dollars.")
We were young and lived wild lives in the delightful city of our sojourn.
Her sentiments maudlin, malaise dripped like a fever from her pores.
Trees had been old men with beards when the woods were still whips.
Little footage, this plot, where it thrived at first, then ghosted away.
The world I was bred for is gone, and all the players in it are also gone.
No one’s alone. Men kill for this, or for as much. And what of the dead?