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The dove calls from far away in itself to the hush of the morning

I am visited daily by unrelenting spirits evoking my accumulated flaws.

Hemingway’s The Garden of Eden was edited by Tom Jenks.

One of us broke away, cooled, and died, having never fully lived.

Buster’s reasons for looking after Marco weren’t entirely altruistic.

And both of them standing there in late afternoon light, looking back.

“The doors are closed,” she said, and we would not be flying to Paris.

The writer was there ahead of the world. And that was a great moment . . .

My closet was a repository of foibles and fetishes, an archive of my life history.

insomniacs gesturing in a cave of neon light the narrative of their lives

A simple line of raging wet nearby, how as a kid I pictured the Nile.

It wasn’t clear if there was an outside world to our outside world.

The air has grown inside me. It’s become a sanctuary.

Just because we have birds inside us, we don’t have to be cages.

It’s the roll-up-your-sleeves hour, when you have to make a living.

Rebecca Lehmann

I slept but never dreamed there. Nor did I feel the need to court a god.

I try to believe that even when cords are cut or people die we connect.

She only eats condiments, pickles, slices of sharp cheddar.

Two surgeons vaulted over a counter to hold open my incisions.

He had looked on it a thousand times and it never failed to kill him.

My first true love was Underwood, my mother’s typewriter.

Wang Wei

Turns out my body’s a dollar sweet potato, her screen said.

The kissed fingerpad touched wet with wine orbiting.

Omens from the Lord, or Nature, the clouds, some darker silhouette.

“You mean to fall in love with your wife while I’m gone,” she said.

Enough with the stranger, their transcendent experience of art.

What I really meant to say is that I am tired. Beauty can demand so much.

I had promised my children to end the war before they grew up.