I remain this tender, yearning to mend the flattened red wingage of every lantern fly that lingers on the stranger’s heels.
a lot of talk about peace is talk about talksand talks about the size or shape of tables
He’s never been on this railway line before.
not a voice—a trajectory of wings
say i was a careless shuttingof language an accidentsound whirling into the guttur
The dead leaves that won’t admit they’re dead are called marcescent
It was late June, the solstice. The day took hours to end. You look like me,my father said quietly.
In those days when I was the academy’s darling I borrowed phrases and made no claims, digressed gracefully from every absent thesis
We watched a movie aboutan orchestral conductor, a powerful woman who groomed young musicians. I didn’t understand the ending. Driving to the beach, it began to rain.