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Timeexpand_moreThey need to be named, loved, then unnamed to be seen once more.
What better place to write the great American novel than North Africa?
My children, children, remember to let me go, delete my number.
The linebacker grins, but the lines around his eyes tighten.
There was a time when all I wanted was go back. Ask all the questions.
The fires in the hills signify nothing more than their own wonder.
“If the world is becoming a void, the artist must fill it with his soul.”
a clock struck again & again by a granite fist; us masked & rocking
It was comforting to see her suffer the way we suffer, hollowed out.
The ego with which we began filters away as love accumulates below.
we are saying thank you in doorways and in the backs of cars
That there are five sturdy red Gerber daisies in a jar on the table.
They drink hard liquor and growl about which musicians are hot.
The consensus was that all the great writers drank way too much.
Centrifugal force circled the beasts until they swirled airborne.
Three lives I flicked alight with a few match scrapes. I cupped them.
A woman pushing a walker understands—gravel can be pain.
Everyone is talking about the end of the world. Why now? Why today?
It begins on the sunny morning of November 14, 1960.
We didn’t give the order to drop the bomb. But thank God somebody did.
It comes as no surprise that everything is flying toward one point.
“I’m not afraid of death; I just don’t want to be there when it happens.”
Gramps’ will was a fifty-year diary, all jammed onto two sheets.
The blackbirds in the rain upon the dead topbranches notate the dawn.
There was a blue wool afghan draped across the back of the couch.
The trees were a sign from the devil, a warning of the terror to come.
She is a stalk, exhausted. She will surround these bones with flesh.
Watch out. That we thought him gone only proves his wily knowledge.
The billows murmur at our feet, where the earth and ocean meet.
In that instant, Niel lost one of the most beautiful things in his life.
