Even from this distance I could go out
the door it would bang shut and crumble

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

Try not to see your own predicament in every fucking thing.

a folksome, gruesome opera
of gauze and malcontent.

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

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

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

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

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

Lights on the dashboard spell out
“You still can’t kiss me”

I have observed, the theorist
I am

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

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

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

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

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.

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

I suffer visions and many indignities
while looking for the Lobster

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