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I know which home takes the turning, which mind washes in hot water.

I awakened on my belly—my back a raw field from nape to heels.

My mother’s house was packed, painted, put up for sale—sold.

Bend with apples the moss’d cottage-trees, and fill all fruit with ripeness.

They cut you off, let fall your hammered silver bracelets to the sand.

Now he chuckles with the sea, stitched within its timeless jive.

I love scientists. They’re trying their hardest. And they just want love.

The dove calls from far away in itself to the hush of the morning

I am visited daily by unrelenting spirits evoking my accumulated flaws.

Hemingway’s The Garden of Eden was edited by Tom Jenks.

One of us broke away, cooled, and died, having never fully lived.

Buster’s reasons for looking after Marco weren’t entirely altruistic.

And both of them standing there in late afternoon light, looking back.

“The doors are closed,” she said, and we would not be flying to Paris.

The writer was there ahead of the world. And that was a great moment . . .

My closet was a repository of foibles and fetishes, an archive of my life history.

It wasn’t clear if there was an outside world to our outside world.

A simple line of raging wet nearby, how as a kid I pictured the Nile.

The air has grown inside me. It’s become a sanctuary.

Just because we have birds inside us, we don’t have to be cages.

It’s the roll-up-your-sleeves hour, when you have to make a living.

Rebecca Lehmann

I slept but never dreamed there. Nor did I feel the need to court a god.

She only eats condiments, pickles, slices of sharp cheddar.

I try to believe that even when cords are cut or people die we connect.

insomniacs gesturing in a cave of neon light the narrative of their lives

Two surgeons vaulted over a counter to hold open my incisions.

He had looked on it a thousand times and it never failed to kill him.

My first true love was Underwood, my mother’s typewriter.

Wang Wei