Authors
While they stand in line Robin leans into his chest. They don't talk.
Come live with me. We could plant acorns in each other’s mouths.
I, being poor, have only my dreams; I have spread my dreams.
To articulate sweet sounds together is to work harder than all these.
Handwritten drafts of “Byzantium,” “Easter, 1916,” and other poems.
“The basis of literary friendship is mixing the poisoned bowl.”
Their days go over in idleness, and they sigh if the wind but lift a tress.
I know exactly what to do when Papa has a seizure in the middle of the night.
“Even though we aren’t carrying out the deed, we are the most responsible.”
He didn’t fall in line with our well-established porn-shop hierarchy.
West Oakland was characterized by unemployment, poverty, and blight.
My door overlooks a jade stream, the stillness of dawn drives cares away.
I made him love me. To feel abandonment—again.
I believe you get to see a sunset once. Death, well, I’ve lost count.
Every touch electric, every taste you, every smell, every cry.
I was satisfied with haiku until I met you, jar of octopus, cuckoo’s cry.
Years ago I wanted parallel lives, to see how it turns out for all of me.
We buy a bag of cockles and three crabs, all female, sweet with egg.