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

“Leaving for war, Hayes wept. He didn’t just cry; he wept...”

If life was exchanged, who is to say it flowed one way?

She commands, under her breath, You must be the son.

Think how you move, how a room changes with your smallest breath.

Arrows shot by the halt at the lame,
 Opinions come and go just the same.


My mother is queen of buttons. She shows off the prized ones.

I wanted my love to be everywhere, then love began to bite through me.

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

Let’s walk down to the river, bless the paper boats and turn it all into wine.

Beyond her ampleness, he stands a small man vanquished.

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.