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He begins to realize that the impossible event may well be about to occur.

Ask your mother about babies. Ask her about the baby that died.

As the whorled fingerpad loves Morse, but more so. Worse.

Our hopes swirled around the act of swallowing a teaspoon of yogurt.

May the dice throw their combinations at night. May it be June then July.

It’s not the sun and all its colonies that miss you—it’s the frailest barriers.

Let the squeamish suffer their fear, let them live without really living.

We agreed: no hearts, no flowers, just courteous, no-strings sex.

It had always been this way. Mothering, for my mother, was a cameo role.

I lost my pen, I lost my keys, and my hat somewhere on a table.

On Saturdays I listen to folk music, lead a life devoted to exodus.

I could untie Minnie’s silk, restitch it into places I’ve lived.

When I was a woman, I was all reason and my reason was unjust.

Take my hand, lead me by heart over the blind stepping-stones to the edge.

I give you a real blue song the mountains hold under their foot.

If dating taught Cory anything, it was that he needed an ex-wife.

I’m just wired hard for hunting, and not so much at all for fishing.

I shouldn’t have to say why the confederate flag is a symbol of hate.

On the small of my daughter’s back is a two-inch tattoo. MADE IN CHINA.

I want him to remember me hanging on his crosshairs.

A cuckoo calls the hours like an old clock, only not the hours we mean.

Now only the single syllable that is the beloved, that is the world.

If you are water my left hand is a horse thief my right hand is alder smoke.

Come live with me. We could plant acorns in each other’s mouths.

They met on the app in April, shortly after her twenty-ninth birthday.

Oh, how did people do it? How did they find some way to be happy?

Make haste, my love, I am redrawing the scale of escape.

Those moments are all I want. I want a life of this. He sighs and I sigh.

It’s raining concrete. I bite my grief wetly. Who will test these chains?

“I want to stay in real yurts,” I said, “not yurts for Westerners.”