I count my homes— those of my scattered youth the sanctuary of our young family the intermittent rest stops of apartments and vacations.
and then her eyes fully opened — blazed through with strands of mud
Yes I am guilty, I’m guilty. A sin was desirable then. Bring the dancer back to the stalks.
The two of us toast to a man we both love, to whatever degree, clink our glasses and laugh…
Part of being a good sad person is always painting the shadows in the right direction and knowing what sorrow to art with.
Lights on the dashboard spell out “You still can’t kiss me”
I’msorry I‘ll see what happens iLife
I like to think I’m also sprung, released from the furnace knocks, done with the heavy meat stews and salty soups.
I suffer visions and many indignities while looking for the Lobster
I am not a guide for every traveler of loss.
The collective failure of ethical standards
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
this is what I want you to to see: leaves falling because it is too late for them not to
Even from this distance I could go out the door it would bang shut and crumble
There is so little left of the tomato plants.
my love is a glass shard, a knife made of madness and moonlight, and there are already way too many fragments in this house
Even as the sun warms the concrete the long nights’ sensual cold lingers in my clothes.