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The dead man’s suit coat
 is a good fit through the shoulders.

I am not prepared for postwar Freetown. Postwar Sierra Leone.

If angels were made of music, surely they would vanish.

The world is where we brace for a joke that’s about to be played on us.

Certain elements of isolation were built into the design, given the odds.

Someone’s walk is pretty much who they are, from the beginning.

Carte blanche is bodily as chalk on dark asphalt, so enliven these eyes.

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

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

Her previous existence seemed unreal, now, a faint rumor.

I was bold, even reckless, in what I wrote, and in how I wrote it.

I was happy I had no one to talk to, to be alone. Happy to be in the hospital.

The child at the rummage sale— more souvenirs than memories.

Hemorrhages, it was thought, do not appear for no reason.

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

When he asks me if I’m ready, I don’t even know what he means.

Rise the Euphrates, my first novel, grew out of a feverish dream.

Remember that innocence is risky, memory inconclusive.

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

I am left with little Rome for error. I choose wrong, then I revise.

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

So here’s the tale, the rumor of the body, and we have to tell it.

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

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

In Astoria, Leo and I find a small church on our way to the river.

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

The new generation doesn’t play war, which is a shame; they text.

When we move together in the dark I can almost get to him but I turn back.