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The dead cowards my parents on a tear through the goddamn fields.

A story about what changes and what remains the same, in just six words.

All diseases were conquered. Death was an adventure for volunteers.

I don’t want fiction. What I want is truth. Or someone’s version of it.

After the reveal, no one could unsee my affiliation.

Progressive stages of revision eliminate incidence in favor of essence.

If others call you a maniac or a fool, just let them wag their tongues.

The distant past returned—what part of it, he could not decide.

I shoved them one by one, easy as pie yet with care, just shy of mercy.

How welcome my birth must have been to the raw soldier.

History howls for direction so I remind him how the hero was lost.

It’s so delicate, the light. And there’s so little of it. The dark is huge.

I used bravado to protect myself when we lived in poverty.

We take our solace, in a time of malaise and mourning, in the close-at-hand.

I wanted to ride this day down into night, to smooth the unreadable page.

Now we have the shells, the casings, emptied and scattered, strewn

I thought my body was mine until it became a map anyone could use.

Man is always beginning everything anew, even in his own life.

In Florence I gained a sense of how I might want to spend my life.

I can see on him how things are changing for and against us.

Advance planning was never Hank’s strong suit, he had to leave her.

Two weeks after she and Mark were married, Hannah fell in love.

All over the planet people try to end pain: striptease, bee stings.

Fiction, no matter how short or long, is the art form of human yearning.

The allure of Mardi Gras is to feel this way: unseen and unseeable.

Americans have always a kind of tenderness for cheat.

Three months is a long time to be away from the person you love.

The thought of entertaining our relatives filled me with horror.

My desire to be in sync with him had nearly been my undoing.

My bike, my skinny body, my pent breath was thrown to the grass.