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

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

Even as the sun warms the concrete
the long nights’ sensual cold lingers in my clothes.

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

The sin is existing.

we drove on through
the blue seal of morning as the turbines
turned and winked out their hearts

I am still waiting for the lion

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

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

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

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

I suffer visions and many indignities
while looking for the Lobster

I am not a guide
for every traveler
of loss.

We stop doing dishes while
a mile unwinds
from the tree outside.

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…

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

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