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

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

my father holds
his favorite drink

Ma wrings
a wet world
of colors

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 suffer visions and many indignities
while looking for the Lobster

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

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

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

Gravel-scatted hell &
we were blessed to be able
to hold on for even a heartbeat

You’ve spent a lifetime training
for this.

The sin is existing.

a folksome, gruesome opera
of gauze and malcontent.

and apples, mackintosh mostly, but any kind left in The Pub
at the Assisted Living Place

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

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

I would always rather be happy than
dignified. Rather held than held
in awe.

you know that
baby swallows make silver ripples
in wild rivers to court reeds?