my father holds
his favorite drink

I want to roll in this moment until I become its vocabulary
until I smell like the bones
until I am its echo…

I suffer visions and many indignities
while looking for the Lobster

Ma wrings
a wet world
of colors

Part of being a good sad person
is always painting the shadows
in the right direction and knowing
what sorrow to art with.

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

Any still figure at mid-late evening, when the long shadows make even crumbs appear arranged like furniture.

I have an axe
with hearts gashed

I like to think I’m also sprung,
released from the furnace knocks,
done with the heavy meat stews
and salty soups.

the strands of your hair on the bathroom tiles aren’t sketching defeat. that’s you spitting disease in the face with another day you’ve woken up to.

my love is a glass shard, a knife made of madness and moonlight,
and there are already way too many fragments in this house

I am still waiting for the lion

Gravel-scatted hell &
we were blessed to be able
to hold on for even a heartbeat

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

You are strange, my mother said, dwelling on the past.

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