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.
Yes I am guilty, I’m guilty. A sin was desirable then. Bring the dancer back to the stalks.
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.