Explore

Mother had always told me that everybody loves a self-absorbed ass.

A man drunk on the damage he made to a boy’s young mouth.

In its shadow, our mislaid secrets cascade down around us.

Order and gardens. Penelope liked things to grow just as they would.

“Jesus Christ,” Dad said, after the counselor spelled it out for him.

I remember a field too long as the stem of a pear chosen in Upstate.

Our neighbors the Bells are watching, watching us when we play outside.

In the garden this morning, I thought for a moment I saw T’ao Ch’ien.

“Out to lunch,” she learns from an older colleague, is a euphemism.

The architect is twice my age and owns an ivy-covered house.

Eight years, and she was ready to call it quits. They were both ready.

When we wake up, the five windows and the French door are full of light.

Even in death, my mother had to make things difficult for me.

The only stories we tell ourselves are the ones we need to survive.

Now he was all out of dreams, out of rage, expectations, and money too.

This kind of childhood stuck with a person, twisted things up.

It will be years before the kids see us as real people, not just as parents.

His name is Lloyd. He lives on Percival. He’s super creepy.

He was so frail, how could your heart not break when you saw him?

He does not dare to ask the question flaring in his head. Will she stay.

A poetry of texture and light runs through these photographs.

I say aria, scale of the day, weigh each square foot she’s kept up.

The church was clearly the work of a madman driven crazy by the wind.

The Renaissance mastered the illusion of depth on a flat plane.

We were both up there smoking weed and axle grease, blinded.

You’ll learn to love the spoil, the apple’s softest flesh, the bruise.

I was nagged by those boxes from my old life stacked in the garage.

Then I graduate to a four-digit mortgage inside an ornate gate.