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He squinted and looked off a little beyond where we were.

Bright rot laces the air, light sharpens each leaf. On our way to fallow, fire.

We’d never had a cross word, but I’d never corrected him.

When you write the story of being a father don’t leave out the joy.

Louise watched from the shadow. She was looking for somewhere to land.

There isn’t a nice Jewish boy in sight—not that I’m looking for one.

I was opposed to the taking of human life. I was opposed to all war.

The window washer smiles a little and licks his lips. Nadine smiles back.

Dexter was unconsciously dictated to by his winter dreams.

He never stopped reminding me that I was born in Harmony, Georgia.

You’re going to have a difficult life if you can’t figure out where to stand.

Without a working title, a poem could muddle meaning, confuse purpose.

“Fuck you,” I said, but it was hard to say it with any meaning.

Not the Olympics, the guard said. Just chuck yourself down the tube.

There were classes where you became a family. It was a kind of love affair.

Her cheek was like a plum about to burst and you had to close your eyes.

You slouched on the couch, naked, in front of the air conditioner.

The joy and anguish of youth, captured in two six-word stories.