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For echo is the soul of the voice exciting itself in hollow places.

The noise of the trees, the breaking of moon into silver fish bouncing off the leaves of asters outside.

Maybe this is the way to come out of a war, he thinks. A burned man to care for, some sheets to wash in a fountain, a room painted like a garden.

The trouble with all of us is we are where we shouldn't be.

Every river they came to was bridge-less, as if its name had been erased, as if the sky were starless, homes doorless.

As we left they told us the old joke. "To start a journey in a sandstorm is good luck.

In the desert the most loved waters, like a lover's name, are carried blue in your hands, enter your throat. One swallows absence.

Give me a map and I'll build you a city.

... in Asian gardens you could look at rock and imagine water, you could gaze at a still pool and believe it had the hardness of rock.

He had been slowing down, the way one, half asleep, continually rereads the same paragraph trying to find a connection between sentences.

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