and then her eyes fully opened — blazed through with strands of mud

Winter sat like a wolf
on the horizon.

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

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

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 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.

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

my friends’ fathers are
dropping
I mean dying
like flies

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

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…

I have observed, the theorist
I am

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

the strands of your hair on the bathroom tiles aren’t sketching defeat. that’s you spitting disease in the face with another day you’ve woken up to.

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

If my life was the size of my arm, I would stretch it out for you.

my father holds
his favorite drink

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