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The fires in the hills signify nothing more than their own wonder.

“If the world is becoming a void, the artist must fill it with his soul.”

a clock struck again & again by a granite fist; us masked & rocking

It was comforting to see her suffer the way we suffer, hollowed out.

The ego with which we began filters away as love accumulates below.

we are saying thank you in doorways and in the backs of cars

That there are five sturdy red Gerber daisies in a jar on the table.

They drink hard liquor and growl about which musicians are hot.

The consensus was that all the great writers drank way too much.

Centrifugal force circled the beasts until they swirled airborne.

Three lives I flicked alight with a few match scrapes. I cupped them.

A woman pushing a walker understands—gravel can be pain.

Everyone is talking about the end of the world. Why now? Why today?

It begins on the sunny morning of November 14, 1960.

We didn’t give the order to drop the bomb. But thank God somebody did.

It comes as no surprise that everything is flying toward one point.

“I’m not afraid of death; I just don’t want to be there when it happens.”

Gramps’ will was a fifty-year diary, all jammed onto two sheets.

The blackbirds in the rain upon the dead topbranches notate the dawn.

There was a blue wool afghan draped across the back of the couch.

The trees were a sign from the devil, a warning of the terror to come.

She is a stalk, exhausted. She will surround these bones with flesh.

Watch out. That we thought him gone only proves his wily knowledge.

The billows murmur at our feet, where the earth and ocean meet.

In that instant, Niel lost one of the most beautiful things in his life.

He was staring at his car like you might a stare at a dog.

Some women have all the tit out hip out flat of the hand & tone of voice.

There in the trees, swinging from branch to branch, they saw Pete.

The cottage stood as a metaphor for what she wanted out of life.

In time the squirrel who was my friend is my friend no longer.