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Miss Moses smiled, I could take you, buster. Don’t try anything with me.

“I mean it, Martín. I won’t marry a man with a bald lip, like a boy.”

Ron Carlson

Our visions of the world fade like the morning star, lost in the light of day.

I ask if you are all right until you can be nothing but not all right, not okay.

I can’t hold a face held before dawn & not see behind the eyes bullets.

Of course he escaped. He would be the one. My legendary brother.

I have heard stories of the river, how people were willing to die to cross it.

For two days I’ve been weeping over a nineteenth-century novel.

Derek was holding a gun. The barrel was pointed at his own temple.

I forgot to detail that the jumper leapt from beside the hanging Monet.

It was a Saturday night in November when his diagnosis finally came.

I bring out the emergency in people and I don’t know why.

I managed to talk sensible Alice into a little pink outfit and high heels.

His weary glance has grown into a dazed and vacant stare.

Just before four in the morning, the dog barks, the headlights appear.

Mafia didn’t like me, except for the tickling game. It went like this.

At night everything feels. Even a river feels its way through the woods.

She is eight years old and doesn’t recognize the word divorce.

It had been four weeks and five days since she confronted him.

On her sixty-second birthday Marge Olson got a call, not a gift.

I saw it on her face that day, a look like her heart would drift into the sky.

The noiseless trees, the insentient breezes that are not there.

Stop her there, on the bank of knowingness, just before spring.

She must know she was a mistake, what they call now a surprise.

If your father were here, he wouldn’t put up with your insolence.

One felt all the poor lady’s barriers were falling save her manner.

By chance you saw. So much had become chance in your life.

This morning I watched two elephants dance the boogie-woogie.

Far below, the right fielder circles and stares, mitt raised to the sky.