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Beautyexpand_moreThe photo portraits express the unguarded essence of each author.
She leaned back to accommodate the sweet delirium of his hands.
By Wednesday morning I’d fallen in love with someone else.
My husband shovels snow from flower beds back onto the drive.
Because I am lonely, I am always shying away from the mirror.
She examines her left hand, finger by finger, gripping and pinching the flesh.
They’re shrieking down Little Round Top, receiving the good girls’ glares.
We serve them far more than they serve us. Service animals, we all are.
Lorna was like a sculpture carved by some Greek out of marble.
He told his father he wanted to make art pictures, not lousy mobster stuff.
At night the wildfire swelled the blurred interior like a lung of light.
You’re too far from where I sit to admire your finery up close.
I’m alive, Sarah thinks, the slam of his look going all the way in.
I dug a hole in you; I jumped (here is the church, here is the steeple).
Elsewhere, perhaps here too, regimes stagger, a congress ends.
Even as a child, I was skeptical—testing God when He wasn’t looking.
The pupils are toothpicks. The lake is a sky with a circle beneath.
There was only the gulf of our steps, our breathing brittle as string.
He loves me. That’s half enough: he’s the only man around.
I must tell you what it is like to be human, or you will drift away.
Lunatics call it annihilation . . . Think of it as not doing a thing
They plant whispers where shouts incinerate into hisses.
Let’s rummage through each other’s bodies like a blowout sale.
I’m from Boston, is that why I imagine Fredrick’s emotions for him?
Her biggest secret was Jay Currie—her white American boyfriend.
You don’t know what it’s like to be so hungry that you’d steal to eat.
At Walden Pond, Henry Thoreau clicks like on the “Wilderness” page.
Dainty morsels do not fail to attract gentlemen as well as ladies.
He says to his boots, “Well, suppose we went for fish.”
i silenced with my hands the loud wet thing that would not let me sleep
