Explore

If life is an open vein, what’s brave about a sleeve-heart, sweetheart?

A simple line of raging wet nearby, how as a kid I pictured the Nile.

In the many pages of the book of love this is only one story.

It’s the roll-up-your-sleeves hour, when you have to make a living.

The world seemed newly made and filled with a frightening silence.

The portal light, on your face, now, a rose light on a sinking freighter.

Life is a dream, he thought. Something she knew and I didn’t.

If you hear your name again just say, Here I am. Maybe it’s the Lord.

Men came over carrying lanterns and pulled away the chunks of ice.

Wang Wei

There is a pinhole of light through the fog. A skiff on a lake.

We could have everything and still be hurt.

I am uneasy with the thrusting of green shoots outside in the night.

No one plans a trip to the emergency room. No one succeeds.

Omens from the Lord, or Nature, the clouds, some darker silhouette.

Here is where you touch the world and here are the words to feel its heat.

People believe; The whole world is part of something.

Everything about us, for better or worse, we make ourselves.

The boy had never before seen his father hopeless. He was afraid.

You smile into the phone static, the breath of your beloved.

The future was spread out for us to go in any direction we wanted.

You couldn’t believe what the rhododendrons do around here.

All my life I wondered what it is to vanish like a ring of smoke.

If only to hold on by opening lord give me this one eighth day

You live in this country, you put up bars, you train your dogs to snarl.

Get all of it. Set up the shots. Get beautiful stuff and get the ugliness.

People write vows for their weddings of one.

This morning drifts of sand hissed along the shore like mist.

We pull up alongside the great body. The fin marks the spot.

In this plummeting weather there is nothing to do but lean in.