She lifts her head, nose heavenward. There’s a wet spot on my dress from our lovemaking, its aroma as heady as Claudine’s bouillabaisse. I hope she smells it.

The boys drank in one room. The girls in another. Always the same, no matter the letters. Greek Letters. Shabby sofa on the burnt-out lawn.

Her eyes grew wide, moist, catching the low light, holding onto it as if an imprisoned lover. "So you come home." I smiled. Was she playing a game?

The woman returns from the store with an armload of books. She reads them quickly, one by one, over the course of the next few weeks. But when she opens the last one, the woman frowns in surprise. All the pages in the book are blank. Every single one.

There are hundreds of fireflies crackling along the tree line and the old stonewall.

6% of anorexics die of their disorder, most of sudden heart failure.

the frost has made all tender greens bow

The nearsighted world/ puts on its lenses

On the way over, on the ship, I met a girl from Cleveland.

A portrait of my sweetheart drawn while she is asleep: a passed-out angel illuminated by the light of dawn coming in from the bathroom window, one of her shoes missing.

There is always a new battle waiting and new innocents to die but the Flying Man's heart is never divided.

Falling Water almost fell./ 12 million dollars later// it will splay itself a little longer

There’s / no crying in poetry!” says Coach / Bukowski

Arriving at the pier I see a sailboat in dead wind. "That is pathos," Magritte says, pointing to a barnacle.

Something about the Garden of Eden. That it isn't really a garden, and I'm not even sure what Eden means.