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

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

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 am not a guide
for every traveler
of loss.

a folksome, gruesome opera
of gauze and malcontent.

here is the sky in stop motion, flickering,
a still shot in monochrome

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

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

Try not to see your own predicament in every fucking thing.

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

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

The sin is existing.

It is the 70s. 1970s? 2570s? Who knows?
Audre and I have a penthouse in New York.

Winter sat like a wolf
on the horizon.