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

Just starlight and some small scribbling across vinyl.

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

love is a soggy tea stain on a grocery receipt

Ma wrings
a wet world
of colors

Every so often, they add a tattoo
in honor of some long-forgotten love.

I don’t
know why
I’m in the garden
kneeling on dirt

how does an afternoon turn
on its axis?

Lights on the dashboard spell out
“You still can’t kiss me”

Okay, picture this: We’re in an elevator. The elevator shuts down. It doesn’t matter where we’re going, only that we’re alone.

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

I am not a guide
for every traveler
of loss.

Any still figure at mid-late evening, when the long shadows make even crumbs appear arranged like furniture.

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

I suffer visions and many indignities
while looking for the Lobster