Do not say anything anybody else has said ever. Things are not “bleached by sun.”
and apples, mackintosh mostly, but any kind left in The Pub at the Assisted Living Place
it’s touch-and-go with me and weddings
a folksome, gruesome opera of gauze and malcontent.
It recommended soft porn, as gentle prodding and petting parent to parent might calm and soothe the kid.
anger, like you can sink teeth into, candy apple
We found in his suitcase T-shirts, his siddur, gifts he bought for his grandchildren…
The sin is existing.
You said it was okay to blame what goes wrong on the planet
It is the 70s. 1970s? 2570s? Who knows? Audre and I have a penthouse in New York.
Just starlight and some small scribbling across vinyl.
here is the sky in stop motion, flickering, a still shot in monochrome
my friends’ fathers are dropping I mean dying like flies
I count my homes— those of my scattered youth the sanctuary of our young family the intermittent rest stops of apartments and vacations.
The two of us toast to a man we both love, to whatever degree, clink our glasses and laugh…
I want to roll in this moment until I become its vocabulary until I smell like the bones until I am its echo…
The storm passes without snow. The car waits loyally in the back lot.
I don’t know why I’m in the garden kneeling on dirt
Listen to me: I know the winter gloom in mid-summer…
Long after midnight, we’re talking about our first time