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

Mrs. Ballinger is one of the ladies who pursue Culture in bands.

Our eyes searched for the island, but ahead there was only overcast.

You’re supposed to hit is the bull’s-eye, that black spot, precise spot.

“Ki o tsukete!” she called, and he knew the words. Be careful.

At first he was mortified. Another person harboured ill will towards him.

You’ve seen her almost every day, going to and from the gardens.

You ask, Could we have coffee? No, my truth, I’m still on this side.

“Fuck you,” I said, but it was hard to say it with any meaning.

There were classes where you became a family. It was a kind of love affair.

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

We began to obsess over water, where it came from, where it was going.

I’ve got my hands around the man’s legs when I notice the blood.

You slouched on the couch, naked, in front of the air conditioner.

The joy and anguish of youth, captured in two six-word stories.

“O youth! The strength of it, the faith of it, the imagination of it!”

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

It was the way of the world: everybody wanted someone else.

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