I could throw one of these rocks at the moon and watch it fall.
They wrapped him in bandages from all three kits. The old man watched them.
Your voice on the phone, a gesundt in dein keppel you blessed my head.
Before sunrise I counted nine meteors scratching the heavens.
I walk across the fields with only a few young cows for company.
Ten years ago, when I was in college, my father divorced my mother and said he wanted me to become responsible for her. That is why I fled to Italy.
It’s been months, and the fields are good for nothing but night talks.
The birds have all flown to Mars for water and Crisco and red.
In the seventies a skier’s mettle was measured by the length of his skis.
It’s life that is hard: sleeping, eating, loving, and dying are easy.
He got people on the conveyor belt that carried them up to heaven.
Walking through the snow with her was enough, quiet enough.
You put his hand around your throat but he keeps moving it away.
He was living like a coyote, out on the margins. But then a letter came.
Gravity bends together this planet and your life, made of glass.
The band was amateur at best. It didn’t matter. People loved them.
The owl was a white that could not be compromised by any other color.
We didn’t give the order to drop the bomb. But thank God somebody did.
The day holds a cup of milk and sits on the couch, legs tucked up.
Until now the man had not really lived, but simply existed, to be sure.
I hold out hands, empty and poor like a beggar by the temple door.
Let’s walk down to the river, bless the paper boats and turn it all into wine.
It’s the roll-up-your-sleeves hour, when you have to make a living.
The coverage of the state funeral, black horse bearing an empty saddle.
I never felt heart stop or skin burn, just the first split second of sound.
My “lonelymaking.” Also known as my horrible secret, continent-wide.
We might have seen it coming, had we not had our eyes fixed on it.
I have been enshrouded for months by the weak winter sun.
Design a way to kill those rats, and do it now, Fiori, do it now.
The gravest season and least understood is more than pale heads