Even as the sun warms the concrete
the long nights’ sensual cold lingers in my clothes.

we drove on through
the blue seal of morning as the turbines
turned and winked out their hearts

I have an axe
with hearts gashed

Okay, picture this: We’re in an elevator. The elevator shuts down. It doesn’t matter where we’re going, only that we’re alone.

It is the 70s. 1970s? 2570s? Who knows?
Audre and I have a penthouse in New York.

My grandmother asked, “Does it feel like being widowed?”

Mostly he ate what was put on his plate
snuck coffee grounds or dirt for a snack
Once a zipper Unzipped

Ghosts for hire, whispers in her mouth,
cysts to feel, the symmetry of a gift.

Do not say anything anybody else has said ever. Things are not “bleached by sun.”

Empty vessels
make the most sound, I think,
as you rip the fairy lights off the handrail.

Now that the Israeli has left, it falls
on me to make the salad.

Long after midnight, we’re talking about our first time

this is what I want you to to see:
leaves falling because it is too late for them not to

There is so little left of the tomato plants.

It recommended
soft porn, as gentle prodding and petting parent
to parent might calm and soothe the kid.

We stop doing dishes while
a mile unwinds
from the tree outside.

I count my homes—
those of my scattered youth
the sanctuary of our young family
the intermittent rest stops
of apartments and vacations.

how does an afternoon turn
on its axis?

I don’t
know why
I’m in the garden
kneeling on dirt