The Leopard’s Mouth Is Dry And Cold Inside
Now I am drying my body, but carefully, as if it doesn’t really belong to me, and won’t last. And now that I see it, alone like this in the mirror, I think I’m right; it won’t last. After all, does a stray dog feel permanent when you touch it? Does something as singular as this ant on my sill? Or if I admit that stray dogs and ants might have a certain anonymous permanence, why doesn’t my white, bruised skin? It doesn’t look as durable as my wife’s reading glasses. It doesn’t even look as if it will outlast some clouds I once saw. They were cramped into the sky of a child’s painting, and looked as if the child forgot to include them, and then suddenly remembered and put in too many of them, as if to make sure of something. 
The Girl Who Was A Victim Of The Flood
The Leopard’s Mouth Is Dry And Cold Inside
The Plains
Schoolhouse
Soon
Toad, Hog, Assassin, Mirror
The Zoo