Her statement had a dramatic effect, because her hair was floating in practically every direction. It looked a little like a painting of a sunrise.
Say I told these stories to a shrink, unfurled each episode/like a story-board, spoke them without undue inflection.
The places themselves don’t matter that much. What I remember was the time I spent with him and the conversations we had.
Now as the waves crash over us/ and the ones who pushed the buttons/ leave this world to their lizards
But I also don’t let such apprehensions stop me from writing as honestly and personably as I can.
We’re begging the world/to remember our name,/but we barely remember it/ourselves.
That’s the kind of man I am: I don’t believe in any lyric “I.” I don’t have time for any mind games. The “I” is either you or the poem’s a fraud.
He set down my cup, showing me coffee trees,/ Corpus Christi costumes, the totora boats/ drying upward to the sky, the salt collectors/ in the Sacred Valley, sand.
“I’ll open a locker and there it’ll be—your head! ‘Thank God you found me!’ it’ll say. ‘I’ve been in here for days!’”
You point to the pheasant. She’s sad, too. You’re both sad together.