When the dots connect, you feel a pulse of intentionality in a universe that seems to be putting on this show just for you. I wonder if those of us who dwell in books are especially susceptible to such delights.

A man once told me that chaos must have a voice. A man once told me that language could heal everything. The chambers of my mind are full of wormholes. When it is smashed open, dark things crawl out of it.

the body learns to move / like a painter / seeing the unseen.

I wasn’t afraid until / I peeked into the hall, saw a black-clad SWAT team / scooting along the wall, rifles held vertical, a strict formality / that made the whole world seem shabby.

the gates are not pearly / but white and scaly / like fish.

My feelings toward Izzy changed by the hour. She was the most dominant person I’d ever known, shorter than me but somehow looking down on me constantly. On her left wrist was a tattoo of a cross. I asked if she was religious. She said no.

May the curious prayer of work keep me / in contact with the stone / / and who knows what else.

To think—I thought it cute, / the doctrine that the oak trees sculpt / the air and water

Hunger is what drives, / unloveliest of urges, most / appealing to the gaping grave.

Jon Henry photographs Black mothers and sons across America.