Your roundabout reasons why You re-gifted yourself to the sea Slid through my mail slot nonchalantly, Sealed in a manila love tunnel, Like a hydro wire wearing One too many …

Except when he was watching baseball, it seemed my father was always outdoors, tipping his hat to locals, watering the flowers that focused his retirement. A Yankees fan for more …

Hard to make out a particular figure: the faces pressed to the portholes, seeds stowed in oily cloth, or the hold altering under a swaying lamp. The actual vessel and …

All I care about is everything. I like to lie down and look up at the stars, even when there are none. I am almost nothing but thoughts and water. …

The city was built on Cambrian rifts, boot-sucking mud, a rush to stake alliances. Now it’s birch, white pine, and alder creaking, a low, flat tailings pond where nothing thrives. …

I always went for darkness as a girl: those ashy Europeans wrapped in capes, the ranks of zombies browsing in the mall, the cabin-dwelling fan with swelling hopes, her novelist …

Il pleure dans mon cœur comme il pleut sur la ville The lovely, easy lines (they are both of those things). Walking abroad in his twentieth year was when he …

My father built ships in bottles, histories in aquariums, filled the second-storey guest room with Waterloo reconceived in Plasticine. Each miniature world was malleable, rippled by his fingers’ ridges, dimpled …

My dolphin eats glitter for breakfast. The jeweller’s hammer of her sonar chirps chunks off the cubic zirconia of my hard-on for her. My dolphin wolfs glitter off A-list stars …