"You can't get out of this one, Henry, you can't get it out of me, and with this bullet lodged in my chest, covered with your name, I will turn myself into a gun, because I'm hungry and hollow and just want something to call my own. I'll be your slaughterhouse, your killing floor, your morgue and final resting, walking around with this bullet inside me the whole time."

"We have not touched the stars, nor are we forgiven, which brings us back to the hero's shoulders and a gentleness that comes, not from the absence of violence, but despite the abundance of it."

Build me a city/ He could build a city / This could be a city

This is an exceptional book of poems. Every word chosen precisely to create a visceral, panicked, lonely atmosphere in each poem. There's not a bad poem in this book and it's certainly hard to choose a favorite, as each has its own merits. My personal favorites are Wishbone, You are Jeff, Litany in Which Certain Things are Crossed Out, Saying Your Names, and Snow and Dirty Rain.