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He doesn’t notice the cop car rolling slow-motion into the station.

I know you want your mother’s dial tone like you want a KFC box.

Keely finally stops crying when they step outside. The shock of cold.

I lost my medicine bag from back when I believed in magic.

Another day, I read my poems and wonder: Where is the world?

How’s everything? It’s been forever! Things with me are pretty good.

Writing is a subversive activity that exempts you from the rules.

A collection from San Franciscan photographers Eszter and David.

The sunrise does not blaze fiercely but spreads in a gentle flush.

The old dog of inertia gets up with a growl and shrinks out of the way.

Vultures liked to perch on the austere ledge outside my window.

He phones from across the country after lying in the grass with another.

A queen bobcat lives in the hollow base of a dead cypress.

I fell asleep wondering to whom the tree might have been writing.

Some people are so beautiful they belong everywhere that they go.

Byron’s mother read things to him: Language is fun. Play. Let’s play.

The exurban dream of it all, to enter is to have the ability to exit.

No one tells you what it sounds like out in the streets when bullets clang.

I am wet with circuitry. And I doubt I could ever save anyone.

I rented a house in the woods of East Hampton as a form of therapy.

Sitting on the edge, I leaned back and fell, wrist-deep, into the body of a deer.

Getting over being drunk makes you wonder why the hell you did that.

He drowned under a different name, a fake name chiseled in German.

If all along we all had known the leaves we leafed would leave us

To enter the dust of their bedroom, to stand invisible on the plush carpet.

Their marriage had dwindled to a separation and a running joke.

Do the work. Every day. Take a step back and see if you love it.

Heat heat and the sky a flame of sapphire, even rocks blazing.