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The birds have all flown to Mars for water and Crisco and red.

The hymn that’s resurrected from the hymnal aspires to the spiritual.

This is a crafty story and things are not what they seem to be.

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

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

I cradled the lifeless bird in my hand and marveled at its beauty.

Not long after Christmas, the smoke really hit Melbourne.

Put out to pasture, flop down into clover, alternate to the glue factory.

It is like the call of a voice the call of a voice that is not there.

On a jet stream, unearthly, air can travel at hundreds of miles per hour.

Fly through 13 billion years of history in this graphic story.

The woman who raised the woman who raised me was a mistress.

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

The Bengalis negotiate their space with corrupt politicians and landsharks.

The stories of terror continued well after the tsunami had passed.

Indifferent day. Sparrow fretting for rain gathers grass and seeds.

The danger was my own carelessness, and now I was waist deep in it.

My daughter swallows arrows of sunlight on her way to the grave.

The fog’s sheen is a mirror: my mother sees the terrain of the future—

You can tell by the walls whoever lives here doesn’t want to be seen.

Chuck had a grin, but Mike kept his eyebrows raised, very curious.

A poetry of texture and light runs through these photographs.

How can we go on believing each day won’t be the one that flames out?

I see the garden far away in itself reflected in the polished spade.

A question from one of your favorite songs what would you do

A field. No clouds. Tall grasses bend toward the foreground.

“Pick your switch,” says my father and I’m stepping out into the forest.

The fish’s eye is mangled, tugged inward; blood leaks from its gills.

Before we too vanish, we hike to where three trails converge.

Lucy Liu, you show me I can come to fruition and yellow on my own terms.