Empty vessels make the most sound, I think, as you rip the fairy lights off the handrail.
The storm passes without snow. The car waits loyally in the back lot.
Do not say anything anybody else has said ever. Things are not “bleached by sun.”
Mostly he ate what was put on his plate snuck coffee grounds or dirt for a snack Once a zipper Unzipped
My grandmother asked, “Does it feel like being widowed?”
I slumped in front of a massive desk, a passive patient corroded with failure and dread.
I have an axe with hearts gashed
I count my homes— those of my scattered youth the sanctuary of our young family the intermittent rest stops of apartments and vacations.
Every so often, they add a tattoo in honor of some long-forgotten love.
a folksome, gruesome opera of gauze and malcontent.
Her brown eyes, how a fig considers itself.
It is the 70s. 1970s? 2570s? Who knows? Audre and I have a penthouse in New York.
If my life was the size of my arm, I would stretch it out for you.
Millions of Americans have been affected by identity theft. It’s probably the greenhouse gases.
Okay, picture this: We’re in an elevator. The elevator shuts down. It doesn’t matter where we’re going, only that we’re alone.
Winter sat like a wolf on the horizon.
anger, like you can sink teeth into, candy apple
I want to roll in this moment until I become its vocabulary until I smell like the bones until I am its echo…
You said it was okay to blame what goes wrong on the planet
The two of us toast to a man we both love, to whatever degree, clink our glasses and laugh…