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Three Thursdays in the Bronx

“Oh, Jesus.” It’s the greatest shame since 1929’s stock market.

Tiny Bird

The urge to be a tiny bird upon a tiny limb, maybe a bridled titmouse.

Titan

My own hunger was for a reduction in the vast space between people.

Titan

My own hunger was for a reduction in the vast space between people.

To God Himself in the Passing Hours

I bow to the life being lived in this finch on my terrace this morning.

To My Seventeen-Year-Old Self

Your friends are sniffing glue from a paper bag in the back of an Impala.

Toastmaster

The laughter rises like the roar of a train as the men leap to their feet.

Top Dog

“The kiels take extra time, but then you know your meats. Questions?”

Tradition

It is the night of whores and monsters, but without the killings.

Treasure Island: The Black Spot

There lay before us a bag that gave forth, at a touch, the jingle of gold.

True Believers

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

Tunnels and Walls and Other Ways of Getting There

He bound me to blind obedience, for which I’d shown a propensity.

Tuol Sleng

We press closer to look at a picture: a handcuffed boy leaning toward us.

Twenty-One People between My Legs (and Counting)

Who needs driftwood when I can bury myself in your loamy soil.

Two Girls Bathing and Other Poems

She wears her nakedness like it has been woven from air.

Two Poems

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

Two Poems

Your words will strike her heart like Saint Teresa’s flaming arrow.

Two Poems

Dan Gerber reads poems of boyhood, and from the end of his mother’s life.

Two Poems

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

Two Poems

What’s left is a thumbhouse, an inch of gristle inside skin walls.

Two Poems

One day, we will all turn into choir girls—all soft and hollow inside.

Two Poems

Not all his children love themselves. Look at little Adrienne.

Two Poems

Wicked fictions wrap a young tongue’s sweet-tipped fibs into fact.

Two Poems

My “lonelymaking.” Also known as my horrible secret, continent-wide.

Two Poems

The night shower is a personal pan-blizzard, a folklore-free zone.

Two Things Added Equal a Third

I wore the rose pants for weeks without telling anyone.

Two Years

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

Typhoon

The world seemed newly made and filled with a frightening silence.

Under the Mango Tree

A boy knew he wouldn’t see his mother’s face as he rose from the mat.

Under the Sun

If you hear your name again just say, Here I am. Maybe it’s the Lord.