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More than your shirt I’m wearing. More than the wildflowers in the field. The purple will yield to yellow— when it turns red I will not be here to see it. This weight I feel is not the weight of your body. When I touch your skin I am trying to remember it— It is…

The passengers riding the train do not know. Nor do the taxi drivers lining up miles away. But they trust they will meet each other. The yellow cabs inch forward like the hours of a life. Each time a door opens, someone enters.

Laundry strung between high windows, bilious in breezy light. A circle of uniformed boys in a courtyard kicking a soccer ball, and someone upstairs practicing piano. In the dream a ceramic creamer painted with wild sunflowers. Streaks of rainbow plumage from small boats going away. Motor oil. Olive oil. Angels that leap from the mind…

My grandmother is tired. She sits at the foot of my bed and asks where I go. I show her my books, and she smiles at the text for Chinese 101. As I turn the pages, she reads the characters she knows—moon, noodles, peace, fear—and asks about those she does not. “We haven’t learned that…

“I’ve decided the only thing that really interests me is how the sun hits a white wall.” —Edward Hopper to Andrew Wyeth   Somehow the crow snuck in, its caws echo             in the fluorescence of the hallways. We are all waiting at the ICU ward             for your suffering to come to an end….

Haydn conducting the first performance of the Farewell Symphony for Count Esterhazy in his palace, the work composed so that here and there an instrument would cease, each bewigged and bespectacled musician pack up his case and depart, the rich sounds in that great hall, with its plaster curlicues and cherubs and six-foot candelabra, diminishing…

It is thicker than a woman’s hair. A boat tipped on its side spills a gift into the waters. The lake holds a hundred and two wonders in its still embrace. A cold wind wrinkles its surface like a spent sheet. You cannot write on it the way you do on a wasp’s hive. A…

When Gus sees his father, they don’t speak of it. His mother is dead. What was it that he did when he was ten? He remembers his father stripping him and hosing him down outside, and beating him with a peeled switch. Sent to his room without dinner, he grew up dreading the evening meal….

Before work I would stop by Constantine’s place for a glass of red wine and a cup of coffee. He kept the wine under the counter and poured it in secret into a large tumbler. “If anyone asks,” he once said, “tell them it’s the milk of a red cow.” You could tell which men…