I wondered what that was like, to hold someone’s hand. I bet you could sometimes find all of the mysteries of the universe in someone’s hand.

The summer sun was not meant for boys like me. Boys like me belonged to the rain.

Another secret of the universe: Sometimes pain was like a storm that came out of nowhere. The clearest summer could end in a downpour. Could end in lightning and thunder.

Words were different when they lived inside of you.

I wondered about the science of storms and how sometimes it seemed that a storm wanted to break the world and how the world refused to break.

I got to thinking that poems were like people. Some people you got right off the bat. Some people you just didn't get--and never would get.

Absent parents aren't abusive per se. They're neglectful. They love in a very imperfect way. There are parents like that, and they do love their daughters and sons, but they're not parents in the way that we might think of it.