If America is Babylon / and you are an exile / newly arrived among pagans / Catholic, ‘Ngolan, Black, woman / you already know how to pray
I am still waiting for the lion
you quit wearing pants loaf around your yard in hole-nipped panties
I don’t know why I’m in the garden kneeling on dirt
I like to think I’m also sprung, released from the furnace knocks, done with the heavy meat stews and salty soups.
Just starlight and some small scribbling across vinyl.
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…
Long after midnight, we’re talking about our first time
Part of being a good sad person is always painting the shadows in the right direction and knowing what sorrow to art with.
and apples, mackintosh mostly, but any kind left in The Pub at the Assisted Living Place
I count my homes— those of my scattered youth the sanctuary of our young family the intermittent rest stops of apartments and vacations.
four-thirty a.m.
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.
Try not to see your own predicament in every fucking thing.
We stop doing dishes while a mile unwinds from the tree outside.
Winter sat like a wolf on the horizon.
Empty vessels make the most sound, I think, as you rip the fairy lights off the handrail.
I would always rather be happy than dignified. Rather held than held in awe.