I taught Polly to turn on a flashlight with his nose. It became his favorite occupation and he'd sit for hours with the light between his paws, watching the things it lit—sometimes jumping up to lick the wall. He'd shine it on our daughter's…

and say did you know it was written just for you? But I will. No one will walk up to you on the busy street one day and say did you know he loved you this much? But I'm telling you now. What good would a pyramid be or a hanging garden or a starry…

Then it got quiet again, the kind of quiet that fills a car even with the radio on and the highway ticking away and the corn flying past regimented and silk tasseled.

I didn’t like her. I like the name. You know I hate that name. I always thought you were funny. Maybe even more than you were mean.

you had to actually cross a damn street, vacate your brain, and say, "you two hellions are going to combust from all this torrid public defilement."

I am the marigold wheel no one can understand, the menace your grandfather warned you about. Yes, yes, that last phrase was overkill...

I knew I was on the wrong bus, but jumping off was a death sentence. I was afraid, but by then I was used to that.

Rowan’s arm burned and throbbed like the center of a neutron star as it went critical for minutes turned inside-out like hours. Standing in a wall, then huddled underneath the couch, she danced around the rim of consciousness, ripping at the seams of her

They line the bar beside me. Talking about themselves and estranged children, while rubbing necks and wrists, searching for the pulse.

I’ll tell you what I think, I think Their hopes of a brush with love Is what keeps the simple cricket Awake all night If you find a baby cricket on its back Fallen on the sidewalk Struggling with its legs In the air Help it to its fee

Now, these explosions announced, political bribes and propaganda weren't going to be enough to push things through. There would need to be survival from blunt force trauma and fear tactics, a relentless forward march

Because they boil bananas and I fry them.

What kind of pain is it?

I may even invite the little man, who lives in the closet, to come out and visit me: Come over here, pleasure me, let me sit on your pink latex face.

The sea dies where a cello torques on sand, leaving me without its compass. An old clock sings.