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

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…

my father holds
his favorite drink

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

Ma wrings
a wet world
of colors

I have an axe
with hearts gashed

I have observed, the theorist
I am

Do not say anything anybody else has said ever. Things are not “bleached by sun.”

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

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

I suffer visions and many indignities
while looking for the Lobster

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

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

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

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

The sin is existing.

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

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