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Loveexpand_moreWhat I became was not pretty. Like a needle on water-warped paper.
I wouldn’t know what to do with the body, gills pumping like an accordion.
it’s hard not to be obsessed with your own shadow I don’t tell him
The next time we made love, I looked for the fox looking down at me.
I had forgotten how to breathe, and then I learned again, all at once.
When you write the story of being a father don’t leave out the joy.
I hightailed it out of the hospital like my ex-wife was a prison I’d escaped.
While they stand in line Robin leans into his chest. They don't talk.
A whippoorwill called, a lonely voice among the cedars.
I open the door and Eleanor is leaning against the wall, paper white.
I never actually existed. I didn’t know it at the time, but it’s clear as day.
“I don’t think I can do this,” she says, after a pause. “I don’t trust you.”
She wonders when she made the decision. Palmela, Santiago?
I make a point of smelling the lilac every day that first week in May.
Because I can love every small thing.
Appearance does not really appear, but it appears to appear.
When the doctors’ voices started turning to noise, I didn’t fight it.
No one was awake and I was hungover young as clean as a piano.
Dexter was unconsciously dictated to by his winter dreams.
I stop and look at the sky. Suddenly: orange, red, pink, blue, green, purple.
He begrudged how money poured through her hands like water.
Her mother singing out the window at trucks slamming the other way.
The world smells brand-new crisp the way an ax cuts fire wood.
A bunny the size of a teacup feasts in the clover, ears lit up in salt-pink light.
Our eyes searched for the island, but ahead there was only overcast.
The end of a relationship, through four six-word stories.
At first he was mortified. Another person harboured ill will towards him.
“Fuck you,” I said, but it was hard to say it with any meaning.
As a child I wanted to behold the elusive squid, the patience of eels.
You slouched on the couch, naked, in front of the air conditioner.
