2022.

He found a pubic hair on his computer screen.

2021.

A muscat, sweet to the tongue, and savored.

2020.

He remembered his vision and its limitations.

2019.

Not a word to keep him awake.

2018.

Ever since he awoke, he thought of sleep.

2017.

He always lost his pencils behind his ear.

2016.

He sat in the bathroom's darkness until the room became visible.

2015.

Even looking through his glasses, that fingernail clipping of a moon remained blurry behind a thin high layer of cloud.

2014.

The night's cricketsong was loudest along the railroad tracks.

2013.

Not this time, he thought; yes, this time, she remembered.

2012.

A dead centipede resembling a discarded hairbrush.

2011.

Within the confines of the woods, they discovered a river of bright skunk cabbage.

2010.

Vile, he thought, the smells that a human, even he, could make.

2009.

Petals like confetti lined the parkway through their neighborhood.

2008.

They believed it was now.

2007.

While passing a moss-topped stump, they could smell the nectar of flowering trees in the wind.

2006.

Thorny arches of blackberry canes were her only barrier.

2005.

The sun settling into place backlit her body.

2004.

Tufts of bright green grass bordered the path through the woods.

2003.

At seventy miles an hour every vision is a snapshot: two deer, heads down; a tree, a truck tire leaning against it, a groundhog that had climbed most of the way up the tire; grey sky like a shawl.

2002.

His urine was strong like asparagus.

2001.

In a square room with a dull light, the meeting ran towards the next day.

2000.

Something felt like an accomplishment.

1999.

He believed he could write whether or not he were fully awake—like a poet believing that being drunk was inspiration's corporeal form.

1998.

Groggy like an old drink, he stumbled out of chair into fragments of light, the encumbering night, a growing chill.

1997.

It was not sleep that kept him dreaming but that woke him.

1996.

Let x, he thought, stand for n—then he would know the number.

1995.

And spring moved as it would, backwards and forwards, never caring what face it showed.

1994.

He enjoyed a slight crunch in his sherbet.

1993.

Rain followed by sunshine followed by night.

1990.

That morning he discovered on her dresser a stone in the shape of a seagrape leaf in the shape of a heart that he had found for her on the beach a couple of weeks before.

1989.

Something reminded them of their son.

1988.

The catwhisker in the dog's food bowl was so large that he wanted to used it as a paintbrush.

1987.

Their music playing loudly, a group of young people, in poses of outward toughness, congregated around a park bench with a baby stroller and a baby.

1986.

Rain and darkness seemed to define the mood in a way that sunshine never did, so they considered eating popcorn.

1985.

There was a fraying couch, and the two of them sat on it.

1984.

Something reminded them of their daughter.

1983.

He didn't ask her what she had for dinner because she didn't eat.

1982.

Unknown birds twittered, reboant, hours before dawn on that cold wet spring morning.

1981.

"Sleeping," he said, "is for the weak."

1980.

Her eyelashes brushed the night away and the closed into two brown semi-circles.

1979.

Afterwards, he carried her tampon by its string to the bathroom, exclaiming that he had caught a mouse.

1978.

He said to her, "I need my reading glasses to read your face in the dark."

1977.

The bush was studded again with tiny pointed purple leaves.

1976.

He could think of two hundred reasons to celebrate a birthday.

1975.

He heard the geese's spring return from his bedroom with every curtain closed.

1974.

A carpenter bee, suspended in flight under the eaves, searched for a place to bore.

1973.

The plane shuddered violently as it continued down the runway.

1972.

Every landing was a continuation.

1971.

He could see his office from the plane during every takeoff and landing.

1970.

The plane descended towards its landing through a tumble of turbulence.

1969.

Then he noticed the sculpted brown lips of the stewardess.

1968.

He grumbled to himself about how the capital O in the typeface of the book he was reading too closely resembled a zero.

1967.

The scent changed from crape myrtle to a sweeter honeysuckle, and it was spring.

1966.

The spider from the night before visited him again as he wrote.

1965.

Occasionally, the dogs would disappear into the basement to pee.

1964.

They land where their plane meets its shadow.