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They rose almost in the dark, went barefoot through the wet grass to gather windfalls before the birds arrived;

A gut-check cringe away from hope—a taste laid wide against the tongue that I can’t swallow— and you’ve already flown the paths I follow.

His was a study of the beautiful flash, the elusive, staccato chord.

its knowledge of good and evil coiled on the seat between us.

Alone on the beach under an empty sky, it all comes clear. You promised me vastness— and delivered, even before your irrevocable exit.

Where will we end up? Persistent hum of tires is our story, and eventually the color of each signpost has its meaning.

Before we’d been outside the islands of our shitty neighborhoods, we weren’t angry. Only when the sun beat down we dripped with sweat, revealed tanned chests in the backyard, and played the radio.

How often I have played the part of this poor fish skewered by a barbed hook it mistook for something benign