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Oh they pay me well. I make a small fortune. Yes they pay me well.

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

No one was awake and I was hungover young as clean as a piano.

Yes, Sweetness, a white shadow shimmers on the X-ray of the future.

You and the cat wish I were baking pumpkin pie and we were happier.

“When we heard the horn, we left—our faces wet—not looking back.”

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

No one else ever seemed to mind working side-by-side a murderer.

At the core, a daughter is a self-reckoning emptiness.

Something is wrong with that place. Someone’s still there . . .

A rumour went round that the Australians had bulletproof clothing.

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

They had been good girls. They stood by him when he killed a man.

I froze because, the absurdity. also, the urn had a loose-looking latch.

Dr. Zee knows his son is struggling up out of some chemical fog.