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Men are so delicate, must be given many portals. I try to be game.

David Lee

A goddess was offended; her altar required my virgin blood.

I saw a bat in a dream and then later that week I saw a real bat.

The urge to be a tiny bird upon a tiny limb, maybe a bridled titmouse.

My own hunger was for a reduction in the vast space between people.

My own hunger was for a reduction in the vast space between people.

My mother’s house was packed, painted, put up for sale—sold.

Bend with apples the moss’d cottage-trees, and fill all fruit with ripeness.

Help me, please help me, is the beggar’s refrain on the F train today.

I love scientists. They’re trying their hardest. And they just want love.

I should call my loves while I can to listen to the grackles croak.

Again, nature has written a good script. The skunk saga will continue.

His beauty comes from his power. I am as wary as I am drawn to it.

A psychologist told me we can train our dreams. I practice each night.

The first murder had been a half dozen years ago in a warmer city.

He was alongside without preamble. Elephants are not stealthy by nature.

Who needs driftwood when I can bury myself in your loamy soil.

Our brains interpolate from surrounding images, fooling us.

The coverage of the state funeral, black horse bearing an empty saddle.

My “lonelymaking.” Also known as my horrible secret, continent-wide.

I never felt heart stop or skin burn, just the first split second of sound.

I feel them slice me open and tug, then I smell my own innards burning.

I slept but never dreamed there. Nor did I feel the need to court a god.

Wicked fictions wrap a young tongue’s sweet-tipped fibs into fact.

The air has grown inside me. It’s become a sanctuary.

God was surrounding the chair, leaves flourishing from a sickly tree.

It wasn’t clear if there was an outside world to our outside world.

It’s the roll-up-your-sleeves hour, when you have to make a living.