Here is something we can all count on. Sooner or later our tribe always comes to ask us to agree to murder.

Wanted: a needle swift enough to sew this poem into a blanket.

I slept little, read a lot, and fell in love frequently.

If the sky falls they shall have clouds for supper.

Making art in America is about saving one's soul.

The poem I want to write is impossible. A stone that floats.

I left parts of myself everywhere, The way absent-minded people leave Gloves and umbrellas Whose colors are sad from dispensing so much bad luck