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

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

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

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

Ghosts for hire, whispers in her mouth,
cysts to feel, the symmetry of a gift.

love is a soggy tea stain on a grocery receipt

Should have found a job by now; should have slept in the night;
should have boiled old coffee before noon.

I myself should never have been born

Winter sat like a wolf
on the horizon.

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

I am not a guide
for every traveler
of loss.

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

Long after midnight, we’re talking about our first time

Ma wrings
a wet world
of colors