I have observed, the theorist
I am

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…

Okay, picture this: We’re in an elevator. The elevator shuts down. It doesn’t matter where we’re going, only that we’re alone.

Ma wrings
a wet world
of colors

and apples, mackintosh mostly, but any kind left in The Pub
at the Assisted Living Place

You let the yellow glow
from eye sockets. The building up the street
is burning faster and faster.

we drove on through
the blue seal of morning as the turbines
turned and winked out their hearts

My grandmother asked, “Does it feel like being widowed?”

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

You said it was okay to blame
what goes wrong on the planet

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

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

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

I count my homes—
those of my scattered youth
the sanctuary of our young family
the intermittent rest stops
of apartments and vacations.

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

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.