Ma wrings
a wet world
of colors

I imagined a cascade of slow death for all / that mattered…

a folksome, gruesome opera
of gauze and malcontent.

I am not a guide
for every traveler
of loss.

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

and then her eyes fully opened — blazed through with strands of mud

The sin is existing.

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

You’ve spent a lifetime training
for this.

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

Lights on the dashboard spell out
“You still can’t kiss me”

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

I buy too much, for someone of my stature.
could pawn a skinny metaphor to purchase a plump skin.
its reputed in our lineage— to daydream a life that shreds our pockets.

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

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 have an axe
with hearts gashed

my father holds
his favorite drink

Should have found a job by now; should have slept in the night;
should have boiled old coffee before noon.

Try not to see your own predicament in every fucking thing.