In the train carriage, we’re hot in our furs, brooding and half-drunk.

The first time I went to Paris, I was seventeen and stayed with a man who was thirty-three, Sylvain.

My child could draw that.

It was a slow curve—a big bender,
spinning against the trajectory
of the ball. It hung

The Hungarian brings flowers to break up with me. I can see him through the window as he takes them from the trunk of his car in the Starbucks parking lot. 

I was afraid the security guards would stop us, but they just shrugged when I took the plane out and put it on the field.  One of them even said something nice like, “Whoa, that is a cool.”  I taxied it from the end zone; it took off and buzzed up into the sky. 

I was in this movie. I was in this movie. I was in it. I was there. I was ripping in and out of the titles as they blinked across the screen. I was swimming through the avocado walls into the house

Lugging along next to me on the elliptical is an older gentleman – about the age my dad would have been – wearing two high-tech knee braces, fit with gears and everything, and what looks like an old-fashioned weight belt. He’s a regular at the fitness center, same as me. We’ve acknowledged each other on occasion and said a thing or two in the sauna, but never a real question-and-answer. I’ve always wondered about his knees.

Those days I believed in Body over Mind. I believed Mind followed Body because I knew matter could think. I was a cook in this little hotel/restaurant in Missoula, Montana. The manager put me up in