There are moments of great shame in Las Vegas and New Orleans, where you look at the desired object, and you feel guilt because you want nothing more than to just stand and stare. You want to remain, gaping open mouthed, watching it occur in front of you, to not do anything about it—just spectate.
Because it was a day we contacted people we no longer loved even though we once often told them we loved them, my ex started chatting with me online.
Danny Staves, a pale eight-year-old, sat on the curb in front of his house picking at an opened can of peanuts. He wore slightly over-sized shorts that made his stork-like legs look even thinner and his white knees knobbier. He was a pretty child with a delicate heart-shaped face, big liquid eyes, and brown hair. […]
And last winter
I walked to work through snow drifts on Broadway
and saw a lone cardboard raft of onion rings half buried
I resisted them
The gutting of the fish is an ugly thing. There are about twenty. The marble countertops are slick with skin and blood. This is not something you want to watch, my sister in hot pants and bikini top chopping off fish heads.
I pause to unhitch the wire from fence post and feel the flow of wind traffic, parallel with earth, hurry toward the other side of town. The horse senses it too, the busy sound of morning energy.