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. …

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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 …

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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 …

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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 …

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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 …

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And the seed bunches hung in the summer trees on branches that swung in the wind, it was the summer when everywhere you went you heard the cries of newborn …

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He might wonder all his life whether his decisions were betrayals, whether he found love out of fear, what prompted him to stay, what wished in him to leave. Or …

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I. It comforts them to think that we embark in pairs, shuffling into the hold of the boat, this creaking ark— they who go solus into the dark. II. Noah …

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