It’s time to dress up in the clothes of the dead is what mother said when she’d spent the afternoon making chicken stock. I wore my father’s yellow socks and…

“It thunders. It thunders.” An ocean is a form of cruelty. Coincidental sheets against a coincidental mattress. In the beginning, people shouted. The gods fell upon the earth like sandpaper.…

There is no longer a distinction between the body and the sand. He travelled for thirty leagues with a stranger. Our share of night, our share of morning. Everything wears.…

While some wind turbines kill birds, newer models are being built to reduce bird mortality. “It begins with socks in a drawer.” He went looking for the ocean and found…

The soul yes was murky and no one could see it. —Adelia Prado Something of the fog has burned off— something in the high oaks and behind the sounds of…

At a certain hour of night, the lampshade thinks it’s an evening dress.

towers behind me in the photo you took before we left for the New World. Welders rise from the old world like the dry wine of Apold rises from the…

I drink milk late at night, in the mountains. Its lonesome white A beam That carries The melting snow Of mother’s breast— A moment of healing For the child I…

but I know what I like, I think, when the kid admits I don’t know Greek, looking down at the Latin on the page. Two minutes in a still classroom…

yours—no matter you can’t amble     much or gamble, your temples are wailing like a trombone or that you’ve hit a dead-end occupation:     talker amid texters, reader among scanners, writer among…

It’s hateful to be mistaken or forsaken. Worse yet to be bitter, full of spite. Which is why you should believe that all is not random: That awful marriage that…

It’s hateful to be mistaken or forsaken. Worse yet to be bitter, full of spite. Which is why you should believe that all is not random: That awful marriage that…