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On a Late June Evening in My Driveway

Take some cherry tomatoes, I say when the moon rises over the pine.

One More Day and Other Poems

There is a lot about others I don’t remember, outliving an interest.

One Says We

Sometimes one does wade into it or is ambushed as by a incensed fog.

Outside Elko

The sedan clipped their front bumper and pitched Bill’s car into a slide.

Oysters

Eating a raw oyster is like exchanging a soul kiss with the sea.

Pardoning

My daughter swallows arrows of sunlight on her way to the grave.

Patchwork Elephant

This kind of childhood stuck with a person, twisted things up.

Patisserie

Que voulez-vous? I said. Patisserie, she said and smiled. Pastry, I said. Well, that’s predictable.

Peas

It will be years before the kids see us as real people, not just as parents.

Perseids

How can we go on believing each day won’t be the one that flames out?

Poem to My Child, If Ever You Shall Be

I have so many questions for you, for you are closer to me than anyone.

Portrait of the Cartoonist as a Woman

My mother taught me to rebel within the boundaries of acceptability.

Privilege Reproduces Itself

money gotten by blood tends to stay in the blood, which has no race.

Promises

He folds on himself like a sheet kicked off the foot of a bed.

Purple Eyes

The purple-eyed women on her mom’s side began generations ago.

Rachel Occupies Wall Street

I reviewed the rules for myself, among them: stay in the moment.

Rapture Basement

I used to be known for the humor of my music, the lightness of touch.

Reading Three Poems

All day we lay on the bed, my hand stroking the deep gold of your thighs.

Ready

Her sly smile was a vicious remnant of her life before Real Life began.

Real People

Their house is what I see when I look up from my notebook.

Reflections on How Writers Make a Living

Our culture cherishes a fantasy of a certain writerly existence.

Rembrandt

A story about money, values, and materialism—in just six words.

Reunion and Other Poems

I keep waking up on the edge of the black lake. He’s on the other side.

Ride

Stripped we are — no mark of wealth or rank upon us. We wear our skins.

Rough Cut of Snow

I have wasted your childhood, photographed you too much.

Rouses Point

It was as if the stranger in the train carriage had taken out a knife.

Sagrada Familia

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

Savages

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

Sent

It seemed that someone had died, but really it was part of us.

Shallow Waters

He finds the note taped to the lid of the toilet: “There’s someone else.”