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They need to be named, loved, then unnamed to be seen once more.

Window widows we were once, like lonely oil spilled on sullied beaches.

No, you may not walk there. No, you may not stand on that. He is not here.

I thought that proved he blamed me. I thought they all did.

My children, children, remember to let me go, delete my number.

I ask that now I be allowed to see the one my vision has been denied.

The fires in the hills signify nothing more than their own wonder.

I want to dispute that depression is by definition pathological.

When I saw my father for the last time, we both did the same thing.

It was comforting to see her suffer the way we suffer, hollowed out.

The ego with which we began filters away as love accumulates below.

we are saying thank you in doorways and in the backs of cars

Centrifugal force circled the beasts until they swirled airborne.

Three lives I flicked alight with a few match scrapes. I cupped them.

The woman who is known only through a man is known wrong.

A dwarf is now crying, he sounds swollen but golden with malediction.

I have seen your ocean. I have heard your waves beside my bed.

“were all here pregaming. at my dads apt. Wher the duck are u.”

We didn’t give the order to drop the bomb. But thank God somebody did.

Sue Williams tells a pitch-perfect story outloud, about devotion.

“I suppose there have been a good many men killed in this room.”

The trees were a sign from the devil, a warning of the terror to come.

Watch out. That we thought him gone only proves his wily knowledge.

I was getting a little fogged, but I recognized irony when I heard it.

Stopping it, Cye knows, is like stopping a tsunami with a tennis racket.

All we knew from my father was that my sister had to be cut from her car.

He was staring at his car like you might a stare at a dog.

“I might surprise you,” Mr. Maxi said. Polly hoped he’d go all out.

These days murder is as common as love scenes were in the 1930s.