You let the yellow glow from eye sockets. The building up the street is burning faster and faster.
I am not a guide for every traveler of loss.
The sin is existing.
I have an axe with hearts gashed
we drove on through the blue seal of morning as the turbines turned and winked out their hearts
My grandmother asked, “Does it feel like being widowed?”
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 apples, mackintosh mostly, but any kind left in The Pub at the Assisted Living Place
Any still figure at mid-late evening, when the long shadows make even crumbs appear arranged like furniture.
Ghosts for hire, whispers in her mouth, cysts to feel, the symmetry of a gift.
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.
I imagine that undressing a color, though, would be so much like peeling a memory away from the grey and the white matter of your brain.
my love is a glass shard, a knife made of madness and moonlight, and there are already way too many fragments in this house
Yes I am guilty, I’m guilty. A sin was desirable then. Bring the dancer back to the stalks.
and then her eyes fully opened — blazed through with strands of mud
Millions of Americans have been affected by identity theft. It’s probably the greenhouse gases.
Should have found a job by now; should have slept in the night; should have boiled old coffee before noon.
how does an afternoon turn on its axis?
my father holds his favorite drink