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I arrange your five deflating basketballs under the lonely net.

She had come to the scene where she needed to get them in bed.

Eros, myth, life, and literature in brilliant paintings by Lincoln Perry.

I found it impossible not to imagine a radiant future for myself.

The proper qualities of each sex are eternally surprising to the other.

In its shadow, our mislaid secrets cascade down around us.

My dear, even my ear is trying to eat itself in its attempt to forget you.

I continue composing my love letter, hoping to love her more.

When he died earlier this year an enormous hole was left in my life.

You are with outsized footnotes that have tracked across the Internet.

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

Put out to pasture, flop down into clover, alternate to the glue factory.

I remember a field too long as the stem of a pear chosen in Upstate.

Fly through 13 billion years of history in this graphic story.

Eight years, and she was ready to call it quits. They were both ready.

Mom often went to work on her days off. The library was her refuge.

It was the year we learned to wash our hands. That was one lesson.

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

It’d only take a slight shift to realize his new world isn’t a danger to him.

I don’t remember being born, only the great dog whose fur I clung to.

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

My world must not be made of brief encounters along the neat squares.

You must not be afraid of what waits after death, my past self says.

I am almost never standing in the ocean, not that way, not anymore.

The last thing one settles in writing a book is what one should put in first.

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

I see the garden far away in itself reflected in the polished spade.

A question from one of your favorite songs what would you do

Before we too vanish, we hike to where three trails converge.