you quit wearing pants
loaf around your yard
in hole-nipped panties

The sin is existing.

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

Ma wrings
a wet world
of colors

I myself should never have been born

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

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

here is the sky in stop motion, flickering,
a still shot in monochrome

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

the man is stayed bent over the canvas
of my sofa. the man is me the man is him
self and I bring down the whip…

my friends’ fathers are
dropping
I mean dying
like flies

We found in his suitcase T-shirts, his siddur, gifts he bought for his grandchildren…

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

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

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

Listen to me: I know
the winter gloom in
mid-summer…