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I watched to see how the others lived, not knowing I was the Other.

My wife had time to form a thought: I have killed my daughter.

He would sneak into my room, we would have sex, he would sneak out.

I must never go to the garden without a heavy stick or a corn-knife.

Try never to repeat rhymes, not once in an entire show. It tires the ear.

Every really good book on first reading is life changing.

Intimacies of the body can outlive resistances of the mind.

She knew Jim would be a terrible husband. They’d murder each other.

The graffiti suggests the most essential story of New Haven.

Just sugar cubes and a crop for you. Salt licks to smart the tongue.

Standing there in our small shadows, we discuss the ways of the dead.

The women wanted signs of regret, but she was straight shouldered.

The Village wasn’t really a village. No walnut trees. Just cut flowers.

Once upon a time, a couple wandered in a glass forest, hand in hand.

His chest rose and fell softly, in time, it seemed, to the song.

Later in the pale of dawn your hair brushed across my forearm.

As a shadow I arouse you will you believe the truth of my mouth.

It was enough to make the most hardened veteran drop his guard.

I broke up fights, bandaged cuts, fielded calls from parents, and sat with the sad or depressed.

I don’t need to consult a healer to feel the aura glowing around us.

The fog’s sheen is a mirror: my mother sees the terrain of the future—

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

Death is our common ancestor. It doesn’t care who we have dined with.

Forgive me, please, for continuing to believe that roses are beautiful.

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

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