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Our crowns are made of dead hair and get swept out with the trash.

I eat what’s in front of me, as all great men do. Some wouldn’t, but I do.

I have tried and failed to renew my vows to real trees whom I love.

Because grass sprouts from the stump’s rings like tiny soldiers.

I halt and watch a monk, under plum boughs, sweeping flitting shreds.

Pale dust clung to their skin like the lime he had thrown on the dead.

I played a game I called ocean, resisted my need for air.

Those trees—each an epoch with its origin and history, rising into night.

Burly Viking raiders are standing in the coffee line, sharing pickles.

Isn’t it nice to think tomorrow is a new day with no mistakes yet?

As far as I was concerned you need never have been my father.

It’s difficult to be blessed by Madam Pele. She gives wonderful trouble.

I keep waking up on the edge of the black lake. He’s on the other side.

The website said November was a good time for appreciating bark.

Nothing was permanent, no friend I made, no math test I took.

Remember that innocence is risky, memory inconclusive.

Kenny Wade makes do with short-term schemes and part-time work.

The roads have come to an end now, they don’t go any farther.

Any invented quotation, played with confidence, can deceive.

Let’s span a time with each other. The mutual will give us pleasure.

A wildness and all the ways I could never be classy enough for pearls.

The boys came down out of the woods and crossed toward the dock.

An eye trained only for darkness makes for a lesser path, in art as in life.

“Look in my eyes. Do I look like someone who has heard this story?”

Now the scalpel is slippery; how will I know where to make the cuts?

A question will render in a throat before blowing out its socket.

Salt lick inquest skill-step stalks. All flit, vanish: footfall’s fault.

Throwing the El Camino into drive, he roared down the mountain road.

The alert says Warning: Wild Exotic Animals Loose.