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

my love is a glass shard, a knife made of madness and moonlight,
and there are already way too many fragments in this house

You are strange, my mother said, dwelling on the past.

The sin is existing.

Should have found a job by now; should have slept in the night;
should have boiled old coffee before noon.

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

and then her eyes fully opened — blazed through with strands of mud

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

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

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

Winter sat like a wolf
on the horizon.

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…

We stop doing dishes while
a mile unwinds
from the tree outside.

Long after midnight, we’re talking about our first time

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

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

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

this is what I want you to to see:
leaves falling because it is too late for them not to