Live the rest of your life from one worst case to another.
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 count my homes— those of my scattered youth the sanctuary of our young family the intermittent rest stops of apartments and vacations.
it’s touch-and-go with me and weddings
and apples, mackintosh mostly, but any kind left in The Pub at the Assisted Living Place
People have always coped with flooding, and they learned to cope with death.
You let the yellow glow from eye sockets. The building up the street is burning faster and faster.
In my universe, my arm carries a heart and flowers, my back a misguided quote
I imagine that undressing a color, though, would be so much like peeling a memory away from the grey and the white matter of your brain.
Try not to see your own predicament in every fucking thing.
here is the sky in stop motion, flickering, a still shot in monochrome
I imagined a cascade of slow death for all / that mattered…
I want to roll in this moment until I become its vocabulary until I smell like the bones until I am its echo…
We found in his suitcase T-shirts, his siddur, gifts he bought for his grandchildren…
Lights on the dashboard spell out “You still can’t kiss me”
I myself should never have been born
Yes I am guilty, I’m guilty. A sin was desirable then. Bring the dancer back to the stalks.
Her brown eyes, how a fig considers itself.
this is what I want you to to see: leaves falling because it is too late for them not to
four-thirty a.m.