I have observed, the theorist I am
The storm passes without snow. The car waits loyally in the back lot.
You let the yellow glow from eye sockets. The building up the street is burning faster and faster.
I tap at the alphabet while a single deer taps at the dirt beyond the brush on the far side of the tree line.
my father holds his favorite drink
Her brown eyes, how a fig considers itself.
my friends’ fathers are dropping I mean dying like flies
The sin is existing.
You said it was okay to blame what goes wrong on the planet
People have always coped with flooding, and they learned to cope with death.
a folksome, gruesome opera of gauze and malcontent.
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.
You are strange, my mother said, dwelling on the past.
There is so little left of the tomato plants.
Even as the sun warms the concrete the long nights’ sensual cold lingers in my clothes.
Just starlight and some small scribbling across vinyl.
I count my homes— those of my scattered youth the sanctuary of our young family the intermittent rest stops of apartments and vacations.
You’ve spent a lifetime training for this.
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…