by drowning in the Pacific, not because it’s pleasant, (like dying in my sleep during some subconscious, midnight reverie), this...

I’ve noticed, whenever you roll to your side, you take much of the blanket with you, my legs and feet bereft, left bare but ready to...

The carnation I left you was given with much pondering – not as romantic, they’ll say, as its more beloved, historic rival, the rose; not...

We sat at the beach together but I didn’t write a thing. I looked to the horizon and its meeting of sky and sea and the cerulean they...

The way our cat sleeps on books makes us think of osmosis, her head reposed on the cover’s title, her paw outstretched over the author’s...

The Beatles are on Sullivan and I’m about to be born. There is no correlation other than my mother is watching them on television, and...

teases amid the white, leaving us to guess what's been omitted, cherry- picking its many biases, filtering out the disparaging in every...

On Valentine’s, I didn’t think of hearts but of shamrocks, of St. Patrick, the lush and kelly greens of the Irish, the luck that clovers...

And there he is again, on the very first page of every Merriam-Webster, the top of the list of Animalia, the Everest of his kind; Aaron,...

On our anniversary, we spend the evening gazing at the stars yet not as lovers do, making wishes on ones that fall, but imagining instead...

As a boy, I saw only sand and sea and stones I pitched with a splash beneath the shifting animal clouds that I envisioned. As a single...

Upon our awakening, you ask why men want sex first thing in the morning. It was merely a kiss on your arm. You read a tad too much into...

I offered to go with you, to the mausoleum, thinking you'd said "museum," believing we'd gaze at vases and cracking busts made by the...

lays down tracks like he did when he was a kid, predating The Neighborhood of Make Believe— he was already in college by then, getting...

The temperature in our apartment is always moderate, 20 Celsius, or as our friends in San Francisco call it, 68,       never too frigid,...

That page at the end of my notebook, the one that is blank, is the best poem of mine you’ve ever read, you say to me as I choose which to...

When you turned to me and raised your brow, I too made a face. He sauntered past: grey, dishevelled, second-hand clothes still rank with...

—for a sculpture by Walter Allward In the hours after dusk, we deduce he plots the path of distant suns, waits unabatedly for Antares to...

We drive to the beach the day you’re released from the hospital, the pills afloat in your glass currently a memory taken by tides;   and...

In your chair, covered in a shawl to warm you, hot milk by your side, arthritic, gnarled fingers pulling limply on elastics (ones that...