It is the 70s. 1970s? 2570s? Who knows?
Audre and I have a penthouse in New York.

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

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

a folksome, gruesome opera
of gauze and malcontent.

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

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

love is a soggy tea stain on a grocery receipt

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

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

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

The storm passes without snow.
The car waits loyally in the back lot.

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

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.

Winter sat like a wolf
on the horizon.

He has stories that I am not in
anymore. It’s healed this way.

my friends’ fathers are
dropping
I mean dying
like flies