The peanut seller tore sheets out of paperback books to make the cones.
The distant past returned—what part of it, he could not decide.
The prisoners were ten ragged scarecrows wearing prison suits.
I shoved them one by one, easy as pie yet with care, just shy of mercy.
History howls for direction so I remind him how the hero was lost.
For my vacation last summer, I visited the Bateer family in Xiwuqi.
Certainly the ushers who pass the baskets know me as a miser.
It’s so delicate, the light. And there’s so little of it. The dark is huge.
I used bravado to protect myself when we lived in poverty.
We take our solace, in a time of malaise and mourning, in the close-at-hand.
“We’d be naive,” Crump went on, “not to assume that people are vile.”
The preacher looked me in the eye. He laid his hand on my chest.
You will be a broke blues man with only some story of how you were.
I wanted to ride this day down into night, to smooth the unreadable page.
He could hardly breathe; sweat was trickling down his face.
The presents you receive will not have been chosen with such care.
I sometimes forget I’m a horse. I’m also a man dressed as a horse.
My grandfather committed my grandmother to a mental asylum.
Frank kept his face blank as he read the orders: Report to Berlin.
Neither blood nor belonging accounted for my presence in Ghana.
Life, then, was song and purple font, imagining in words a future.
Lebanon’s dreams of a homeland were fading with every rocket launch.
Teach me how to turn a phrase like “yellow hair” from simple to rich.
We caress the rough. Sensuous, delectable, and yet sorrowful.
I want to focus on bears. On knowing them, and on what they need.
Passions played among the orchids and through cherish and reveal.
The hawk moves out of the way to let a little hot package of breath rise up.
I thought my body was mine until it a map anyone could use.