Because nearing what one wants, / Our intellect is so overcome / That our memory is left behind.

I’m carrying into the cold / a bulging trash bag, big enough to hold / and hold and stretch and hold, like love itself, /
and outfitted with handy drawstrings.

Stillness is hard. This is going to take practice.

Diego always called me mija, daughter, instead of Lisa. Once he called me by his ex-wife’s name, and ever since, he always called me mija. I thought he might have forgotten my name altogether, but he had his pride, and I took care not to embarrass him.

Star-eater, you said / nothing when I asked; / you couldn’t hear me / with my mouth pressed

How many forms can the wind take? / A paper bag, a dying voice, a limping stray.

Here flints / / sleep next to tinder, matches near the stove.

He plunged into more and different living beings beneath the river’s surface, also uncaring. Almost-blind fishes swimming between reeds, above rusted cans and keys and teeth and bones.

One recalls the depths of shadow, / The uncertain elsewhere of each room, / Dust like stellar remnants drawn together.

Who would just leave a baby Jesus out / In their front lawn for anyone to take?