It’s not the contraption itself that I love—this pair of shells of steel and lace—but the woman who measures me and tests my straps as if armoring me for battle.

Why hide? To be found. Why be found?

blame grows small in the moth’s circling / day to day the slightest tooth loosens / a landscape changes until returning by habit

my mother leaning in listening / her usual face her yesterday’s face / out cold on the couch

She understands the place she was born into is full of shadows. They slip into her open cracks, slide oozing into the gutters of her ribs, spill against the long, unbroken lines of her legs.

The other day I received my first offer for term life insurance (how are corporations so prescient?), which has the effect of reminding a man he’s going to die, just as a baby has the effect of reminding a man that if he dies, it shouldn’t be for nothing.

It's easy in the sense that all you have to do is get in the car and fire up the app. It's hard in that it requires long, monotonous hours to be fruitful, and constant vigilance to stay safe. San Francisco is a tough city to drive.

I'd never felt so sad engraving a trophy before, like I wanted to throw it away when I was done with it.

Before I am beautiful I'm in the hairdresser’s chair, / perched atop two phone books, holding my ear. My reflection / in the bathroom mirror is a landscape painting.

We think that Tinder is just for fun, swiping like in a videogame, like the 1980s game Frogger where the frog hops across the freeway and tries to avoid getting flattened by cars—this is how we feel about dating.

Why did he shape my brother’s body to the contours of war? Is this the shape of all our language already?

I learned to sleep as light as a new mother, in increments of minutes rather than hours, listening as I dreamed for a rustling of clothing, a knife unsheathed, and then I stopped sleeping altogether.

We're not here yet, and still the key aches in the lock. I am leaving, and it's as if I was returning

"I've always been interested in the invisible poem. When a poem is finished, what is the undercurrent? What is it still trying to say?"

He never finished a performance without making a prediction. His predictions, if right, would immediately boost his prestige and reverence so much so that when he passed his offering bowl around afterwards people would be more than willing to part with their hard-earned cash.

You have found out that someone dies every two seconds. This shouldn’t make you feel better, but it does.

When you greeted each other / your palms / like embers in cigarette stubs / red and hot / showed from your sleeves

Elsewhere, some later year, I’ll try to be good. Today I don’t care.

You return, at last. / At the edge no longer./ At the margin’s curve no longer. / Circular no longer. / In the embers of unfading foam. / The sputum of inscrutable lava.

excuse me this chambray tie / this cummerbund, these plain chops, / these dull lips. I’ve no guilt for gild's sake.

I am at my threshold. / The dirt of our daughter. / The mole of her squirming body.

As a witness should I run to her? Make sure she's not suffering a stroke or an aneurysm? I pictured a headline demanding the whereabouts of a witness who'd left the scene of a potential homicide.

Bars or no bars, if you did have something worth having, they’d take it, whether you were ridiculous about home security or not.

If I had known all boats eventually yield / to the current, I would have readied myself / long ago

As they headed back into town in Smiley’s pickup, she could only feel like they had all done something wrong, something to be ashamed of. Something they could never talk about again.

By recreating the past, I do not mean going back in a sentimental nostalgic way, but by rebellion and opposition to a world in which we see more and more borders, and walls.

SAFE Employees make a SAFE railroad. With SAFE employees, a railroad devoid of any mechanical safety devices CAN and WILL be operated safely.

I love expectation // beauty subsumed

The morning of Claire's funeral, I lie naked on the table and wait for her mourners to arrive. Thomas scrapes a knife against whetstone in the kitchen. When he appears above me, the blade glints harsh in his hand. It's all I can see. To minimize the pain, he explains with a paternal smile. I smile too.

We in America have more taboos than we think and god knows that talking about race is one of them. But talking about class: well, that may be even more forbidden...

O aurora I see centers everywhere / & crescents too, multiplying bubbles / within which every sense / fractures concave & convex

And if they’re missing / in inaction, forgive them / Their useless pearls, nouns