Even from this distance I could go out the door it would bang shut and crumble
my love is a glass shard, a knife made of madness and moonlight, and there are already way too many fragments in this house
Try not to see your own predicament in every fucking thing.
a folksome, gruesome opera of gauze and malcontent.
I tap at the alphabet while a single deer taps at the dirt beyond the brush on the far side of the tree line.
Long after midnight, we’re talking about our first time
Should have found a job by now; should have slept in the night; should have boiled old coffee before noon.
The storm passes without snow. The car waits loyally in the back lot.
Lights on the dashboard spell out “You still can’t kiss me”
I have observed, the theorist I am
here is the sky in stop motion, flickering, a still shot in monochrome
You are strange, my mother said, dwelling on the past.
It recommended soft porn, as gentle prodding and petting parent to parent might calm and soothe the kid.
Mostly he ate what was put on his plate snuck coffee grounds or dirt for a snack Once a zipper Unzipped
I buy too much, for someone of my stature. could pawn a skinny metaphor to purchase a plump skin. its reputed in our lineage— to daydream a life that shreds our pockets.
We stop doing dishes while a mile unwinds from the tree outside.
People have always coped with flooding, and they learned to cope with death.
I suffer visions and many indignities while looking for the Lobster
We found in his suitcase T-shirts, his siddur, gifts he bought for his grandchildren…