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He fell to the floor and begged the gods. The gods were silent.

I stand within her walls with not a shred of terror, not a word of jeer.

Lost land, this is a song for the scars on your back, for your blistered feet.

We have harvested nothing more than the stench of middle age.

I want to cut loose from her each wistful sigh I hear escape her lips.

His fingers traveling through these notes can assuage, I think, all pain.

I dream of snakes coming out of me and through the house to find her.

It’s another thing to have the beloved hesitate, silent, on the porch.

Their mother was the real beauty of the family, or so everyone said.

When I land we argue over the little hazards a marriage is made of.

I tell him: junkies are the only people worth talking to about love.

Her name sprang to my lips in strange prayers and praises.

“You need me,” says the mind. “I just want what’s best for you.”

The elevator inside him begins to fall with dizzying speed.

The first time we love, how tight we hang on to keep from drowning.

The pillow into which her face was turned muffled her voice.

I didn’t trust her. Relationships like ours aren’t built on trust.

A bird is chirping outside, the world is carrying on, and she is in it.

When she sleeps, Shakespeare writes one more sonnet we’ll never read.

I hear her voice in the shivering tambourines of leaves.

Your soul feels old and familiar like a book that opens to my favorite pages.

He knows what she’s seeking, and he knows she won’t find it.

We walk in light so steep I can see each single stitch of your sweater.

Suddenly, all of the past seemed now like the same endless race.

He doesn’t notice the cop car rolling slow-motion into the station.

I have given everything at the wrong time, to the wrong people.

When I dream of lovers, I rarely see faces. It’s better if we never touch.

Our bed a garden of the littlest sighs of our waking. Our room, abstract.

Let me stay here, in the thick of the sweetness, just a moment longer.