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

Now that the Israeli has left, it falls
on me to make the salad.

I am still waiting for the lion

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.

It is the 70s. 1970s? 2570s? Who knows?
Audre and I have a penthouse in New York.

Listen to me: I know
the winter gloom in
mid-summer…

He has stories that I am not in
anymore. It’s healed this way.

I imagined a cascade of slow death for all / that mattered…

Mostly he ate what was put on his plate
snuck coffee grounds or dirt for a snack
Once a zipper Unzipped

Part of being a good sad person
is always painting the shadows
in the right direction and knowing
what sorrow to art with.

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

Lights on the dashboard spell out
“You still can’t kiss me”

how does an afternoon turn
on its axis?

Just starlight and some small scribbling across vinyl.

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

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

I don’t
know why
I’m in the garden
kneeling on dirt