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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.

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

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

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

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.

Stillness is hard. This is going to take practice.

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.

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

were onto something, separating the good god / from all of this, but you’re so stubborn, you / insist on hanging dead in the web

Is it always necessary— / I think but do not say— / for the eyes of men / to penetrate the ways of the most high?