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I have heard stories of the river, how people were willing to die to cross it.

For two days I’ve been weeping over a nineteenth-century novel.

I managed to talk sensible Alice into a little pink outfit and high heels.

“Nothing does you so much harm as being in disgrace for lying.”

He’ll probably try to get her in the sack, just to stay in practice.

If your father were here, he wouldn’t put up with your insolence.

“For the entire time I was there I couldn’t get that out of my head.”

This morning I watched two elephants dance the boogie-woogie.

Each night I curl my body around a small piece of silence.

She had a situation where she’d lost her driver’s license for speeding.

If you want to know what to write, ask yourself what obsesses you.

We were in a play about affection. We were in a play about sex.

What humanity needed was that gravity-defying miracle, the bird.

What’s a man supposed to do when his best friend is a falcon?

They’d been together an hour, but they were an easy threesome.

Her bra is black, her breasts full and white. There is too much flesh.

He will be unable to resist his manias for symmetry and completion.

Those under us are not dead. They are dancers. We are the music.

The golden-haired ones, they think they’re better than Virgin Mary.

The boys searched for their father, lost somewhere in the Olympic Range.

Somebody would be a lot happier if she were more like her mother.

Spanish men. They whispered and whistled. It made her jumpy.

I crouched just like my mother burying nail clippings to ward off curses.

How do our lives disappear even while we’re in the midst of them?

Sister Barbara folded her arms like a forbearing husband.

Where my mom was wasn’t never far from the Myrtle Beach Days Inn.

There was a shout, then a shot fired. I pressed the shutter again and again.

Her family was still poor and hungry and scared.

Before he started spraying he would hand her the mask to put on.

I’m recalling his socks, the inked initials, the splashes of blood.