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In the dream my mother pours
a gallon of milk over my head
because her boyfriend held my hand
under the table.

Electrocardiogram (ECG) monitors are like nonfiction writers: taking in the world and spitting it out in fewer dimensions with more meaning—maybe even some sense.

My mistake was in forgetting: Every time I go to Johnson’s, I swear it will be the last time.

A later episode of the debut Showtime series Couples Therapy features a wedding montage. Harvested from personal archives, the footage depicts real-life couples in their respective matrimonial costumes. They smile and preen for the camera...

                                    Universal Studios of riot 
                interspersed with whites holding
guns and carrying
people away.

Bile-colored flutes survive along bog rock,
red-veined with a fine fuzz:
canebrake pitchers
hooded against the good rain.

The first address is of the house we rented twenty years ago, when our kids were young. Ten minutes on foot—half a mile—from the place where we now live. In reality, however, there is no address, not any longer.

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The hotel where she had hoped to spend a very happy week was in a small village in Tuscany at the end of two trains and a bus, facing a wheat field.

My parents live in Los Angeles, in a shambling three-story in the Hollywood Hills. 

The sound from some other kind of space or 
craft and foot           set in a downtown, US           shots
into windows