The white paper stood out among the faded posters announcing diversions she’d tried in years past—yoga, piano lessons, French conversation.

Henry’s enemy lived next door.

The story I’m in begins, not at the beginning because there is no beginning, but I remember sitting behind a desk.

It didn’t occur to me that I should miss / the sidewalks.

Not just because of my cold, cold heart, / pumping absolute zero in the glacial void / do I not know anyone truly

Frankly I don’t follow this / strategy of yours

People who live in glass houses should install blinds.

It scarcely varies.

You tiny Nero among peacock silks

A little mark shines between your fluttering eyelids.

Fire / Wall and wall / -flower, you, a blossom of ice at the frontier

No one uses the running path / anymore

from my bed’s edge / I take a step / forward

Tiny mirrors released me into my mother’s palms

I had the good luck to encounter Michelle Jaffé’s room-sized installation, Wappen Field, at the Bosi Contemporary gallery in New York early in August 2012.

Charles is ill.

At first the reading man sat at the bar.

All that vanished time rattled around inside him like engine knock.

I think that death, when it comes, is ardently desired by the body (abrupt spring shower), that it is just the respite from a fatal disgust.

We opened the bottle and took a long sip before lying down on the grass and looking at the clouds: