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

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

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

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.

I suffer visions and many indignities
while looking for the Lobster

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

Ma wrings
a wet world
of colors

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

my friends’ fathers are
dropping
I mean dying
like flies

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

I am still waiting for the lion

I would always rather be happy than
dignified. Rather held than held
in awe.

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

a folksome, gruesome opera
of gauze and malcontent.

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

you know that
baby swallows make silver ripples
in wild rivers to court reeds?