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.
Empty vessels make the most sound, I think, as you rip the fairy lights off the handrail.
There is so little left of the tomato plants.
a folksome, gruesome opera of gauze and malcontent.
You are strange, my mother said, dwelling on the past.
You said it was okay to blame what goes wrong on the planet
He has stories that I am not in anymore. It’s healed this way.
we drove on through the blue seal of morning as the turbines turned and winked out their hearts
I am still waiting for the lion
here is the sky in stop motion, flickering, a still shot in monochrome
Try not to see your own predicament in every fucking thing.
you quit wearing pants loaf around your yard in hole-nipped panties
I am not a guide for every traveler of loss.
We found in his suitcase T-shirts, his siddur, gifts he bought for his grandchildren…
The collective failure of ethical standards
you know that baby swallows make silver ripples in wild rivers to court reeds?
I’msorry I‘ll see what happens iLife
anger, like you can sink teeth into, candy apple
Now that the Israeli has left, it falls on me to make the salad.