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

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.

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

If my life was the size of my arm, I would stretch it out for you.

Part of being a good sad person
is always painting the shadows
in the right direction and knowing
what sorrow to art with.

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

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

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.

It recommended
soft porn, as gentle prodding and petting parent
to parent might calm and soothe the kid.

Okay, picture this: We’re in an elevator. The elevator shuts down. It doesn’t matter where we’re going, only that we’re alone.

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

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

Now that the Israeli has left, it falls
on me to make the salad.

love is a soggy tea stain on a grocery receipt