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

Even from this distance I could go out
the door it would bang shut and crumble

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

If my life was the size of my arm, I would stretch it out for you.

You let the yellow glow
from eye sockets. The building up the street
is burning faster and faster.

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

my love is a glass shard, a knife made of madness and moonlight,
and there are already way too many fragments in this house

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…

how does an afternoon turn
on its axis?

We found in his suitcase T-shirts, his siddur, gifts he bought for his grandchildren…

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

I have an axe
with hearts gashed

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

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.