Box of Oxygen

At the gate     I told the blond ranger a man headed straight into me as if he’d knock me down or walk right through my body a door     She smiled said for some it’s a meeting place     I had to run a long way to reach the tiny buildings for them to… More

My Lot

Across the street most mornings the field’s far patch looks shorn The light has a brilliant edge that evens across the grass But it’s not cut, really This morning though the whole of it is brown with billets and I remember I lost you I took the blade of my crazy and cut us down… More

On the Green Banana Leaf

I think, in the end, we must just fall under the weight of all our undigested measures The brown anole on the green banana leaf tugging at its sleeve drawing the skin into its boat-shaped mouth sipping it really like hot coffee and then gulping a second raft of scales I’ve seen its yellow diamonds… More

The Burglars

It won’t be personal, though you will smell them for a week, their amphetamine whiteness on everything. You were nothing to them. You were a kind of money. You were a mine or a cave. You were in fact empty, a dispossession. Unguarded and perhaps even abandoned, it might have seemed to them, when they… More

There Let the Way Appear

I press a lathered washcloth across your chest and belly. So this is all our lives have been leading to. Retching fills the bathroom air. Reaching above my head, I open the window, drawing the scent of sweet alyssum, like honey, like stillness after rage. Hush. You’re talking nonsense. I lift your elbow to clean… More

Letter from Long Island

“People always say they’ll write [letters], but they never do.” —Alice Doesn’t Live Here Anymore Today, M., I rode the S59 bus to Sayville, that typically kinder iteration of our one-traffic-light hyphenated station-name hometown, and though I wasn’t looking for him I did the Catholic gestures when I noticed the statue Jude, patron of dashed-hope… More


In Genoa, the city where the Mary Celeste never arrives every day, the hour to become a ghost isn’t necessarily noon— it’s when the young American student named Hemingway reads, in the plaza, The Collected Stories of her namesake— reads the story of the white elephant hills again, the story of the bickering lovers who… More