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Her family was still poor and hungry and scared.

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

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

My lust works like the tides pulling in reverse, controlled by a simple ballast.

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

Men are so delicate, must be given many portals. I try to be game.

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

Beyond her ampleness, he stands a small man vanquished.

Nothing likes to be abandoned, no one likes to be compared.

On a morning in November words appeared at the end of my pen.

David Hinton

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

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

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

For the president’s arrival they shot two dogs making love on the tarmac.

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

Salt provokes, tenderizes. Your wounds, your dinner.

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

I tell my sister what I didn’t tell my father, I love you. Please, don’t die.

We travel, some of us forever, to seek other states, other lives, other souls.

I know which home takes the turning, which mind washes in hot water.

Writing to you is like putting a note in a bottle, hoping it will reach Japan.

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

I should call my loves while I can to listen to the grackles croak.

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

She had felt to him like some floating spirit of who she used to be.

His beauty comes from his power. I am as wary as I am drawn to it.

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

Neither fame nor wealth could provide consolation for life’s brevity.

My love swims you, your shoulders like hard sails under the green curls.