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On a jet stream, unearthly, air can travel at hundreds of miles per hour.

The one who sold me a smuggled gun sold me smuggled bullets.

Loss. That word echoed in my ears as my eyes ranged around the garden.

The Bengalis negotiate their space with corrupt politicians and landsharks.

After the password was given, the question remained. My name.

It’d only take a slight shift to realize his new world isn’t a danger to him.

The fog’s sheen is a mirror: my mother sees the terrain of the future—

I knew in the dream that I was a condor in the shape of a girl.

She was wanting to be noticed as a person not wanting to be noticed.

Chuck had a grin, but Mike kept his eyebrows raised, very curious.

A poetry of texture and light runs through these photographs.

I see the garden far away in itself reflected in the polished spade.

After moving, I began to look at the images and piece them together.

Before we too vanish, we hike to where three trails converge.

I do not expunge the past but ignite the fuse to a whistling pinwheel.

Loving you is every bit as fine as coming over a hill into the sun.

Under Saint Peter’s Gate, I put good foot after bad, and derided, I chased.

We drink to Nixon’s impeachment again, this time with the good stuff.

“She showed me her tits,” said Jimmy. “Bullshit!” said Frank.

Photo portraits, landscapes, and world scenes by Sandra Lloyd.

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

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

A real or imagined boundary, crossed. End of the line. Lined out.

His mooseness was implacable, the light behind him from the trees.

We would just roll down the old biology road like all the other suckers.

A world of adventure awaited, a world of beautiful, available women.

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

One makes one’s peace with words in a poem and space in a dream.