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

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

I have an axe
with hearts gashed

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

You said it was okay to blame
what goes wrong on the planet

You’ve spent a lifetime training
for this.

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

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

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.

how does an afternoon turn
on its axis?

you quit wearing pants
loaf around your yard
in hole-nipped panties

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

There is so little left of the tomato plants.

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

Long after midnight, we’re talking about our first time