Woke Up This Morning With

You've Got To Work With Your Mistakes Until They Look Intended. Understand?

I Could Hear My Heart Beating. I Could Hear Everyone's Heart. I Could Hear The Human Noise We Sat There Making, Not One Of Us Moving, Not Even When The Room Went Dark.

But He Stays By The Window, Remembering That Life. They Had Laughed. They Had Leaned On Each Other And Laughed Until The Tears Had Come, While Everything Else—the Cold And Where He'd Go In It—was Outside, For A While Anyway.

Honey, No Offense, But Sometimes I Think I Could Shoot You And Watch You Kick.

It's Possible, In A Poem Or Short Story, To Write About Commonplace Things And Objects Using Commonplace But Precise Language, And To Endow Those Things—a Chair, A Window Curtain, A Fork, A Stone, A Woman's Earring—with Immense, Even Startling Power.