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Each harbored a sense that a family of three was not a real family.

The goose cannot see the North but knows exactly where it lies.

When I cried the tears felt so ineffective next to the ocean.

More and more whiskey was required to knock out the elephant.

Francis too had his time in the wilderness, lost in the mountains.

Judging beauty, which is keenest, Eye or heart or mind or penis?

Delighted to be there, celestial together, as high as you get.

I cared less about the potential payoff than I did about being right.

The dean’s voice was stuck in my head. Plagiarism. Expulsion.

He probably should have arrested or at least reported me to someone.

We’ve tried, but it seems it is in the stars for us to hate each other.

Will you bless us, who are so in need of blessing? The world tires.

Luther always had his eye on the back fence, as if he was like an animal.

So long as there was money, the girl felt established, and brutally proud.

The dark creatures are still, yet they give life to the whole mountain.

Lying in wait, set to pounce on the page, are letters up to no good.

When she passes you, her name is a bright blue phrase on your tongue.

The blood had been soaked up in sawdust—“this is hell.”

It was up airly and down late with him, and the loom never standin’ still.

The eyes looked into his own with a meaning, a malign significance.

Here was rot and immemorial night. And death. Death above all.

The face of love is a poem I am writing in an air-conditioned room.

This storm scares me. A foreign climate occupies the land.

I ask if you are all right until you can be nothing but not all right, not okay.

Of course he escaped. He would be the one. My legendary brother.

For two days I’ve been weeping over a nineteenth-century novel.

I forgot to detail that the jumper leapt from beside the hanging Monet.

Mafia didn’t like me, except for the tickling game. It went like this.

“Nothing does you so much harm as being in disgrace for lying.”