Even from this distance I could go out
the door it would bang shut and crumble

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

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.

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

The sin is existing.

Ghosts for hire, whispers in her mouth,
cysts to feel, the symmetry of a gift.

I suffer visions and many indignities
while looking for the Lobster

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

Winter sat like a wolf
on the horizon.

I want to roll in this moment until I become its vocabulary
until I smell like the bones
until I am its echo…

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.

love is a soggy tea stain on a grocery receipt

Should have found a job by now; should have slept in the night;
should have boiled old coffee before noon.

Just starlight and some small scribbling across vinyl.

It recommended
soft porn, as gentle prodding and petting parent
to parent might calm and soothe the kid.

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