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On the other side of Paris an exhibit depicts their home, which is nowhere.

Of the sixteen elephants, one—a lady—completely took my heart.

I found it impossible to forget that we lived in a poor country.

“Dorm whores” his roommate calls them. They come for the booze.

Never takes much, a fingertip’s touch, or beak-brush of prey-probing bird.

I read cookbooks the way I do poetry, with a willingness to be transported.

The people awakened, rose up, raged at tyrants garbed in uniforms.

We have mysterious inclinations. No one can explain it to us.

In a job like that you see the dirty work of Empire at close quarters.

Her appearances are fleeting, a gust of air, a murmur in the night.

He felt desperate for the rains, mosquitoes be damned.

The band was amateur at best. It didn’t matter. People loved them.

My shadow feels my company, my stepping as he steps.

In school, he was called gook, chink, and one boy called him ching-chong.

The woman perused Irwin’s request form. “You can’t go there.”

His thoughts swirl around him. Maybe women aren’t women anymore.

On this small island, everyone knows who comes, especially who goes.

For eight weeks no one heard my voice for eight weeks no one slept.

Poetry isn’t work, he said, unless you’re talking about reading it.

Son, do you know of shame? Then you must know that I cannot feel it.

The wind was like a girl sobbing out her story of betrayal to the stars.

Maybe all of it was possible. Maybe it all could work out.

I see a young ZZ Top smiling, eyes darting from my shirt to my beard.

The boy imagined his dead grandfather haunting the world.

Long and black, almost thick, the night comes to drape my shoulders.

It was half the Spanish he knew—stop, I have a shotgun.

No one perhaps has ever felt passionately towards a pencil.

All my life I have noted that my thinking was atavistic, totemic.

What was she thinking, driving alone to see a man she’d never met?

Ghost still pace Georgia, hungry for babies, for husbands.