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

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.

Gravel-scatted hell &
we were blessed to be able
to hold on for even a heartbeat

I have an axe
with hearts gashed

He has stories that I am not in
anymore. It’s healed this way.

I would always rather be happy than
dignified. Rather held than held
in awe.

Winter sat like a wolf
on the horizon.

We stop doing dishes while
a mile unwinds
from the tree outside.

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

It recommended
soft porn, as gentle prodding and petting parent
to parent might calm and soothe the kid.

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

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

I myself should never have been born