"I wish it hadn't happened. But I will write
a better poem, one that doesn't say I wish

it hadn’t happened. "

“You carried me casually, a rum and Coke
sounding softly in your left hand, your bony fingers
cupped around us both, black as tamarind
 
scraped from its shell.”

"I want to tell him how this... is Joycean in scope, that I’m channeling my inner Jules Renard and embodying the words of David Foster Wallace. But how do you really say that, ever, not to mention on bloodied hands and knees, and not sound ridiculous?"