how does an afternoon turn
on its axis?

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

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.

I want to roll in this moment until I become its vocabulary
until I smell like the bones
until I am its echo…

Mostly he ate what was put on his plate
snuck coffee grounds or dirt for a snack
Once a zipper Unzipped

You let the yellow glow
from eye sockets. The building up the street
is burning faster and faster.

and apples, mackintosh mostly, but any kind left in The Pub
at the Assisted Living Place

My grandmother asked, “Does it feel like being widowed?”

There is so little left of the tomato plants.

Just starlight and some small scribbling across vinyl.

this is what I want you to to see:
leaves falling because it is too late for them not to

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

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

a folksome, gruesome opera
of gauze and malcontent.

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.

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