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I have so many T-cells I’m afraid of forgetting their names.

You linger in the dimming aftermath, grayer and fainter than a breath.

Flesh is temporary, memory a tilting barn dismantled nail by nail.

My soul is simple; it doesn’t think. Something strange paces there now.

In my head at least, you thrive, you die in this mix of ghost and gone.

Condemned to an easy life balanced on the suffering in another land.

Salt provokes, tenderizes. Your wounds, your dinner.

Is that coffee you have, or the hell of fusion in your cupped hands?

Is anybody out there? Nobody answered, and I felt archaic as prayer.

The pen is mightier than the sword in the fretwork of a poet’s language.

But we do despise beauty. We connect it with softness and immortality.

Charlie wasn’t Lena’s first love, but he counted on being her last.

“Oh, Jesus.” It’s the greatest shame since 1929’s stock market.

Everyone they pass is consumed by some desperate interior story.

Art, like writing, is an invitation to be surprised, to be open to revelation.

I keep hearing water sprites chattering, breathing.

My mother’s house was packed, painted, put up for sale—sold.

Help me, please help me, is the beggar’s refrain on the F train today.

Now he chuckles with the sea, stitched within its timeless jive.

Yes, Eylon thought, he lied to Cath. Lied about his day, about the risks.

He has his hands on Nii’s throat, and this time I do not stop them.

“I don’t care how tired we are. I’m not not having sex on my wedding night.”

“The kiels take extra time, but then you know your meats. Questions?”

The first murder had been a half dozen years ago in a warmer city.

A dead body leaned sideways against a wall. Its eyes were open.

One of us broke away, cooled, and died, having never fully lived.

Ajax can answer all this killing only with the killing of himself.

Slice a finger while opening a beer can, fizz the gin high in tumblers.

We press closer to look at a picture: a handcuffed boy leaning toward us.