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He sits hiked up, naked to the waist, like a stone in the bedclothes.

It’s so delicate, the light. And there’s so little of it. The dark is huge.

I wanted to ride this day down into night, to smooth the unreadable page.

Life, then, was song and purple font, imagining in words a future.

She had been sleeping more and more as the tour went on.

Now we have the shells, the casings, emptied and scattered, strewn

I want to focus on bears. On knowing them, and on what they need.

Felicia knew why he was there. He was waiting. Waiting for her.

The survival of our world depends upon the cultivation of better language.

Have two children to keep around the house in case one goes missing.

In Florence I gained a sense of how I might want to spend my life.

She can go to Bible study every Sunday and swear she’s still not convinced.

Royal baby George is tucked in the crook of his mother’s elbow.

Fiction, no matter how short or long, is the art form of human yearning.

Some inner voice told her that now or never her fate would be decided.

I grabbed him by the face and told him life only comes to a person once.

I have, in the long solitude of my body, asked for something else.

The thought of entertaining our relatives filled me with horror.

My bike, my skinny body, my pent breath was thrown to the grass.

After breakfast I set out to see what my wild neighbors have been up to.

She remembers that golden ocean, the promise of a whole new land.

She remembers that golden ocean, the promise of a whole new land.

There was something in her voice, some awful, enduring fire.

To articulate sweet sounds together is to work harder than all these.

I, being poor, have only my dreams; I have spread my dreams.

L comes over & we walk turns around the block—this is what we’re allowed.

I never knew that the song of the first summer cicadas could ease my hips

Art touches the soul and moves life in ways that commerce cannot. E. L. Doctorow noted that writers seem to get business ideas almost right.

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.