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

Lust for power and money undermined their morality and common sense.

All I know is not in front of me, my sweet angels.

The appetite for self-surrender is nothing new in our makeup.

The dead man’s suit coat
 is a good fit through the shoulders.

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

I am not prepared for postwar Freetown. Postwar Sierra Leone.

The legendary author Robert Stone, in the words of his friends.

I wear a gray sweater not unlike the one my father used to wear.

The world is where we brace for a joke that’s about to be played on us.

I sobbed even through hymns sung too gently to lend me cover

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

I was happy I had no one to talk to, to be alone. Happy to be in the hospital.

Hemorrhages, it was thought, do not appear for no reason.

Remember that innocence is risky, memory inconclusive.

Any invented quotation, played with confidence, can deceive.

I am left with little Rome for error. I choose wrong, then I revise.

The boys came down out of the woods and crossed toward the dock.

An eye trained only for darkness makes for a lesser path, in art as in life.

My students are in rows, alive—day-picked apples cut by teeth.

What counts in the long run is pleasure in conversation with each other.

Michelle dances on his forehead like an imp, like an illness in motion.

The clock kept ticking, and the investors bailed out one by one.

I measured your breath with my breath, your foot with my thumb.

The lock surrendered, after a short struggle, to the poker.

It takes you more than ten thousand years to orbit the sun.

I feel delicious tody! I can claim the whole lawn with just one flamingo.

If it hasn’t killed you by now just wait. This doesn’t mean you can fly.