"I loved him,
I loved him the way
a child loves the sharp twist
of gravel on bare knees
after jumping high
off a swing.
I loved him, I loved him,
I fell for him every night."
"You’ve got to jump off cliffs and build your wings on the way down."
"There is hope, but not for us."
"I remember the table at my grandfather’s house. It had carved legs in the shape of a myriad of animals, spiraling around each other, whole ecosystems within each leg. But it was also well-used: we ate there, we talked there. We lived around it, in rows and columns delineated by chairs and space. I remember diagonals of sunlight in the late afternoon, drawn across its flat expanse, transversed by my grandfather’s hand as he swept it through whatever story he was telling, to highlight the words with motion, to motion us closer to the words. I remember my mother, as rapt as I was. I remember my brother, as rapt as I was. I remember that I haven’t seen my mother or my brother for months now, and in some ways, I miss that table more than I miss them. We are all of us only one life each, but that table is all of our lives added together, a delicate tangled problem we never wish to solve. But life solves all our problems against our will."
I looked at all the trees and didn’t know what to do.
A box made out of leaves.
What else was in the woods? A heart, closing. Nevertheless.
Everyone needs a place. It shouldn’t be inside of someone else.
I kept my mind on the moon. Cold moon, long nights moon.
From the landscape: a sense of scale.
From the dead: a sense of scale.
I turned my back on the story. A sense of superiority.
Everything casts a shadow.
Your body told me in a dream it’s never been afraid of anything.