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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.

Her city, but no cats. Specks of color, no cloth.

We’d never had a cross word, but I’d never corrected him.

Wrung taut & tender at the soft play of fingertips, we breathe desires. Laughter takes refuge in bodies no longer coaxed to move. Nature becomes a thought.

Design a way to kill those rats, and do it now, Fiori, do it now.

Where will we go and how will we steer when the cars are gone?

Re: murdering democracy, oiling the shore, shearing the rain forest.

Across sage flats, tundra, and bleeding hearts, she escapes.

I never actually existed. I didn’t know it at the time, but it’s clear as day.

I make a point of smelling the lilac every day that first week in May.

Because I can love every small thing.