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I know it’s a problem, that I prefer to think instead of live.

I slide my heart inside a folded sheet of paper and tape down the opening.

Another light is growing out of their shadows. You can hear it.

The main thing a poet tries to do, above all things, is to write a poem.

Desire whittled me a tool I’d never seen but knew how to use.

I dream a sonnet made of buttons posed stiff against its milky plastic sky.

I stay gripped to pine and the sugar of existence runs through you.

The wine was administered to Theo’s lips, and then the rest of us.

For Henry Moore there is not only the best day but the worst.

An expansion into light, or we could have been, or were for a moment.

It’s wrong to say the lightning is pink is nothing other than to say it’s not.

Since the day the bell was cast I have sat in the bishop’s carved chair and waited my turn.

It’s hard to save your own life, to take such extreme measures alone.

The white geometry of caulk between bathroom tiles—I’m held in place.

Break me like bread. Take me apart. Strip each rib down to light.

“A book is an ax,” Franz Kafka once said, “for the frozen sea within.”

“Leaving for war, Hayes wept. He didn’t just cry; he wept...”

There is still the same reaching of the tongue for that pink ridge.

What can go heartbreakingly wrong, and what would you do?

“We know what can happen,” Mike says. “We choose to do this.”

The orderlies see him in the mirror and mistake it for his twin.

Don’t send me home without a round of applause if not a title.

The moon rescinds its blessing, rests its forehead on a crosier of ivory.

All the woods are alive with the murmur and sound of Spring.

I’m always driving through the desert, on the interstate’s black river.

We skip across the surface like a stone slung by a giant travel agent.

she will unchew the dried bulbs of history, spit them at the foot of her post.

I never entered no-man’s-land by any light brighter than the palest moon.

Sex can be revelatory. Essential nature emerges in sex.