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

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

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

You let the yellow glow
from eye sockets. The building up the street
is burning faster and faster.

In my universe, my arm carries a heart and flowers,
my back a misguided quote

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

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

I imagined a cascade of slow death for all / that mattered…

I want to roll in this moment until I become its vocabulary
until I smell like the bones
until I am its echo…

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

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

I myself should never have been born

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