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

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

I am still waiting for the lion

I have an axe
with hearts gashed

It is the 70s. 1970s? 2570s? Who knows?
Audre and I have a penthouse in New York.

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.

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

I don’t
know why
I’m in the garden
kneeling on dirt

I tap at the alphabet while a single deer
taps at the dirt beyond the brush
on the far side of the tree line.

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

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

The storm passes without snow.
The car waits loyally in the back lot.

You’ve spent a lifetime training
for this.

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

my friends’ fathers are
dropping
I mean dying
like flies