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Natureexpand_moreAny good river should be fat, any good ocean should be worth meeting. A child won a hundred dollars by taking it from the tail of a muddy calf. I remember Robinhood too, but that feels like a different thing.
What I want is a woman who knows all the meanings of indulgence.
His voice was wrung with panic as he spit curses like spoiled milk.
A clumsy coyote descends an old hill of garbage. Death is visiting.
I must be led by what was given to me as streams are led by it
She couldn’t have carried knowledge their kind would soon be extinct. The sediment came when it did, sealing them in their varied positions.
You almost never know different so you make a language of it: chitter, glissando, trill.
His spirit shone fiercely, shaming the chasm by illuminating it.
My days pass through me as music through a thin, stretched wire.
Her girlish hand the color of rich vanilla floating over the flotsam.
She was here. She could not go on. It was the end—the end of the world.
Hard to know what a prisoner believes, what the guard presumes.
Another disposable medical mask drying in the June sun after all the ceremonies are done Looks for a second like a lip snarling in that flirting way you see the tattooed girls snarl
They rise in waves, while a lone hawk remains unperturbed.
Our grandmothers were bakers and nurses, spies and traitors.
I wonder why I feel bound to the gray-dry skin of you, the barrenness of feet.
Colonel Hammer glares, willing us to attention. A few pilots sit up.
Yang Wan-li said, There’s enough to eat. Who needs a lot of money?
Pummel nests from limbs and drown the furred things in their dens.
I peel back the hours and search for the light before it scatters.
I’ve got other plans. And they don’t center on ringnecks.
His chest was sweaty and his T-shirt stuck to it, bleeding black.
Hemingway’s Royal typewriter sat atop a volume of Who’s Who.
I want to step out into sun to scintillate for waves to come and spray.
I have placed my thoughts for you in a nest of copper shavings.
The specimen, a man oblivious, is beautiful to behold, perfect, enough.
A spider drifted down so slowly from the ceiling on a silver thread.
A summer without passion, our selves pulled together like the leaves.
The mountains out your window make Central Park feel rinky-dink.
The holiest of all holidays are those kept by ourselves in silence.
