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

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

Empty vessels
make the most sound, I think,
as you rip the fairy lights off the handrail.

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

Winter sat like a wolf
on the horizon.

my father holds
his favorite drink

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

There is so little left of the tomato plants.

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

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

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…

a folksome, gruesome opera
of gauze and malcontent.

You said it was okay to blame
what goes wrong on the planet

Even from this distance I could go out
the door it would bang shut and crumble

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

my friends’ fathers are
dropping
I mean dying
like flies

Every so often, they add a tattoo
in honor of some long-forgotten love.