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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.

I’m touched by kindness, I declare. That anyone wants me is a miracle.

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.

Sarah let herself be guided by her desire, inescapable and true.

Sex is the closest we can come to touching where touch resides.

Eyes wide open, I offer myself to a new boy and watch him grow.

He’d reenlisted in ’64; he would not go home until the War was won.

Grief is a rude houseguest. She stays up late. She leaves messes.

This so far is a haunting, the bleeding heart we used to hear about.

Her hips, her pelvis, broke free of concerns. His eyes hovered.

I love you to distraction, she would say. I love you beyond love.

We have mysterious inclinations. No one can explain it to us.

He was living like a coyote, out on the margins. But then a letter came.

Her appearances are fleeting, a gust of air, a murmur in the night.

A six-word story written by eighth-grader Marlon Jiminez.

Out by the road was her son standing without a stitch of clothing.