Explore

I wear a gray sweater not unlike the one my father used to wear.

Someone’s walk is pretty much who they are, from the beginning.

Walking through the snow with her was enough, quiet enough.

Her previous existence seemed unreal, now, a faint rumor.

I was bold, even reckless, in what I wrote, and in how I wrote it.

She looks in the mirror above the sink, and her image makes eye contact.

The rings of Saturn flash their nothing yellows, nothing blues beautiful.

I am left with little Rome for error. I choose wrong, then I revise.

When one of the Baxters yelled, “Hey, Turd,” we all turned our heads.

Let’s span a time with each other. The mutual will give us pleasure.

Brassy bullets fell against the floral comforter like little candies.

Maybe older Natives have more trauma than younger ones.

“Look in my eyes. Do I look like someone who has heard this story?”

The wild-eyed horse was more a figure of nightmare than dream.

In Astoria, Leo and I find a small church on our way to the river.

Michelle dances on his forehead like an imp, like an illness in motion.

The new generation doesn’t play war, which is a shame; they text.

Tobias Wolff

Outside the kids play stretcher. One of them was dying between my hands.

Christ is not alive but the she-blood is. Slow down and swerve to miss her.

What would you say about the driver of the truck that killed you?

She alone knew how he could be swept up, tender interior laid bare.

I measured your breath with my breath, your foot with my thumb.

Six-word stories about the the perplexities of love and desire.

It takes you more than ten thousand years to orbit the sun.

It’s silly, I know, half-expecting to see Apollo playing lyre to a muse.

You put his hand around your throat but he keeps moving it away.

On the other side of Paris an exhibit depicts their home, which is nowhere.

A week later, I said to a friend: I don’t think I could ever write about it.