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The shorebirds bank toward the west at once—flashing too fast.

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

Art, like writing, is an invitation to be surprised, to be open to revelation.

I keep hearing water sprites chattering, breathing.

My own hunger was for a reduction in the vast space between people.

My own hunger was for a reduction in the vast space between people.

They cut you off, let fall your hammered silver bracelets to the sand.

Your friends are sniffing glue from a paper bag in the back of an Impala.

I love scientists. They’re trying their hardest. And they just want love.

Hemingway’s The Garden of Eden was edited by Tom Jenks.

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

It seemed to her that they only ever touched each other in transient, sudden ways.

It is the night of whores and monsters, but without the killings.

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.

We press closer to look at a picture: a handcuffed boy leaning toward us.

Let him search, Tricia thought, who knew what he might discover.

“The doors are closed,” she said, and we would not be flying to Paris.

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

She wears her nakedness like it has been woven from air.

Lebanon’s sky was full of stars. The sky here doesn’t have any stars.

Our brains interpolate from surrounding images, fooling us.

Corn repeats itself into a haze of tassels and sheaving leaves.

Your words will strike her heart like Saint Teresa’s flaming arrow.

The coverage of the state funeral, black horse bearing an empty saddle.

Dan Gerber reads poems of boyhood, and from the end of his mother’s life.

Not all his children love themselves. Look at little Adrienne.

A homecoming, she says, as if you hadn’t been back in decades.

Kansas is a cold dessert, I say. No, Kansas is a tongue depressor, he says.