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I watched to see how the others lived, not knowing I was the Other.

My wife had time to form a thought: I have killed my daughter.

There are parts of a man that are born again with each of his daughters.

I must never go to the garden without a heavy stick or a corn-knife.

It ends with a flourish like smashing a glass in the fireplace.

I’ve found that love has provided my life’s happiest moments.

A friend of my father’s once told me, “You’ll never be a writer.”

I’m a big fan of then. A novel needs a lot of thens.

Love is the difference between a full life and an empty one.

Try never to repeat rhymes, not once in an entire show. It tires the ear.

Love is not something you wait for passively, but a practice.

I make peas and argue with a wall. Something gets stuck like that.

She knew Jim would be a terrible husband. They’d murder each other.

I walk across the fields with only a few young cows for company.

The graffiti suggests the most essential story of New Haven.

Just sugar cubes and a crop for you. Salt licks to smart the tongue.

Your jumps are numbered. It is better to be a bird without altitude.

I’ll leave a trail of crumbs as I descend into god knows where.

Standing there in our small shadows, we discuss the ways of the dead.

The Village wasn’t really a village. No walnut trees. Just cut flowers.

How many gods do you believe in? How many good men?

Two animals, doe-eyed, slick across the road into the femur of the night.

Logic is such an elegant weapon; and religion, such an easy target.

Once upon a time, a couple wandered in a glass forest, hand in hand.

Later in the pale of dawn your hair brushed across my forearm.

As a shadow I arouse you will you believe the truth of my mouth.

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