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He’s not the skinny hippie all the paintings make Him out to be.

All my life I wondered what it is to vanish like a ring of smoke.

If only to hold on by opening lord give me this one eighth day

We fed our dreams inevitable sins, the kind you lie about till you grow mean.

We pull up alongside the great body. The fin marks the spot.

We need to stop talking about it, we need to put some pants on.

Her city, but no cats. Specks of color, no cloth.

It wants to name the dead—without a name you wander lost in the sky.

We’d never had a cross word, but I’d never corrected him.

She had yellow cat eyes that she insisted were also blond.

While they stand in line Robin leans into his chest. They don't talk.

There isn’t a nice Jewish boy in sight—not that I’m looking for one.

I was opposed to the taking of human life. I was opposed to all war.

I stop and look at the sky. Suddenly: orange, red, pink, blue, green, purple.

Without a working title, a poem could muddle meaning, confuse purpose.

As a child I wanted to behold the elusive squid, the patience of eels.

give me a fish and I will make a necklace of its sharpest bones