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You think I couldn’t write it because I look like a mechanic, I said.

I wanted just to like chemistry, because my teacher hailed from Georgia.

Poetry can open. Is there a case for poetry in this plague year?

We’d open our mouths and sink, trying to make an ocean of ourselves.

Imagine first the mighty blast. And then the mushroom cloud.

My mother taught me to rebel within the boundaries of acceptability.

Art is a way for the mind to master the body, even if it is not one’s own.

cannibal chowder and a kiss by the splashing voices of a pool

I lean I stumble toward you hoping you’ve not turned away yet.

The windshield’s dirty, the squirter stuff’s all gone, so we drive on.

All of this leaves me floating in seas of prehistory and indeterminacy.

You can’t ask her not to fall in love when she does it on a daily basis.

He smelled like the bars my mother took me to in the middle of the day.

They don’t dance but simply monitor our movements, like bodyguards.

Everything is mine on loan: the leaves I’ve combed out of my hands.

Something basks and gathers in the dark parts of an open ear.

Of what use, other than to the butterfly, are a butterfly’s wings?

All those butterflies I impaled when I was a boy—will I go to hell for that?

I reviewed the rules for myself, among them: stay in the moment.

The transformation of their maid from shadow to sexpot thrills Maizie.

I wound through the Gothic castle buildings in the university.

Have you no one else to talk to? Your life is really that empty?

She had boyfriends before she met him. Well, not really boyfriends.

Lust for power and money undermined their morality and common sense.

The appetite for self-surrender is nothing new in our makeup.

My head was muffled in velvet, my body exposed in an old slip.

For a moment I had the delicious feeling of fitting in without even trying.