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.
We found in his suitcase T-shirts, his siddur, gifts he bought for his grandchildren…
and apples, mackintosh mostly, but any kind left in The Pub at the Assisted Living Place
I am still waiting for the lion
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 myself should never have been born
and then her eyes fully opened — blazed through with strands of mud
Should have found a job by now; should have slept in the night; should have boiled old coffee before noon.
It is the 70s. 1970s? 2570s? Who knows? Audre and I have a penthouse in New York.
Even as the sun warms the concrete the long nights’ sensual cold lingers in my clothes.
Just starlight and some small scribbling across vinyl.
I would always rather be happy than dignified. Rather held than held in awe.
Listen to me: I know the winter gloom in mid-summer…
The collective failure of ethical standards
I don’t know why I’m in the garden kneeling on dirt
I have an axe with hearts gashed
The storm passes without snow. The car waits loyally in the back lot.
Ma wrings a wet world of colors
The two of us toast to a man we both love, to whatever degree, clink our glasses and laugh…
Empty vessels make the most sound, I think, as you rip the fairy lights off the handrail.