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It was only a matter of time before the damp of loss grew within us like moss.

A ripple across the darker fathom, no sooner there than torn away.

At 35,000 feet, the center of heaven, in the deep Milky Way, we meet.

He told me that he knows a parent’s grief for a dead child.

Why am I always asleep in your poems? Look at me Ben, when am I.

Lie down & whisper all your careless dreams into my votive ear.

Our cocoa is gone and our dreams are being eaten by mice.

The waves have heard of you. How you caress, how you kiss.

One spent the better part of this life writing in the dirt with a stick.

She possessed a quality that made one forget all shortcomings.

Play hero, sunburned protagonist, awake in our dream.

My childhood is a city where tenderness was frowned upon.

Why do you keep so much from your husband, don’t you trust him?

That year, the mail would arrive as white as warning, as flashing teeth.

I wish I could tell him he’s not going to hell. It would be so freeing for him.

Imagine being able to calm the one you love best, who loves you best.

It’s the human genius of reproducing not quite exactly.

What I want is a woman who knows all the meanings of indulgence.

I loved the game not for its shapes alone, but for symmetry’s quiet flash.

Perhaps the only way to see a whole body is to see one coming out of you.

What a good time we could have if we were happy to be who we are.

My days pass through me as music through a thin, stretched wire.

Her girlish hand the color of rich vanilla floating over the flotsam.

Her anger was white and cold. It sent seams of ice through my heart.

She was here. She could not go on. It was the end—the end of the world.

Walking on Canal Street, I slipped on the curb and fell on my face.

All of those feelings—you do not have them, they have you.

Somehow my confession became a sharp knife I kept hidden in a drawer.