To articulate sweet sounds together is to work harder than all these.
I, being poor, have only my dreams; I have spread my dreams.
I’ll see you on the sea, they say, but then they float past on a raft
I sit next to a man I never loved but let kiss me wetly for two months.
Always I obliged the urban tree, any speechless unblessed nature.
Here is my aphorism of the day: Happy people are monogamous.
Death is a lack, I suppose, and love more so. But I will not falter.
They taught us do not touch it, but who can keep from touching it?
…when you walk to the edge of the Mekong and make a wish…
You walk and the world bends toward you like leaves waiting for rain.
I’m mourning in the armpits of a lover we once called a family friend.
We will use my entire bed and all my dishes, make dirty each chair.
We’ve seen the news. We know the story. How even our bodies hurt us.
The hound, the leash, the fence, the hens. So many of them.
I’m happy in the unmapped landscape inside the bottle.
My relationship with god resembled that of a prisoner and firing squad.
Snows piling in his crying mouth. Cold gave him a light complexion.
I couldn’t love the tree in every soul shouldering its own tiny autumn.
Desperately, children: I am in desperate need for desperate need.
She countered the reverence of his efforts stroke by stroke, tit for tat.
My father made me watch softball on ESPN 2 to help me stay alive.
If everyone’s lost on the roads, you might as well fly. Enjoy your life.
Waiting for a cure, waiting for the closeout sale, the black sail.
For one hundred years I followed old people to learn what I was in for.
In the morning light, I could hear Bashō hard at work.
The appendix on political correctness explains why none of that is funny.
You are afraid pain itself might develop a way to communicate.
We have harvested nothing more than the stench of middle age.
For sixty or maybe seventy years this sidewalk has been lying here.