I imagined a cascade of slow death for all / that mattered…

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

I myself should never have been born

I have observed, the theorist
I am

I have an axe
with hearts gashed

I am not a guide
for every traveler
of loss.

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

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.

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

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

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

the man is stayed bent over the canvas
of my sofa. the man is me the man is him
self and I bring down the whip…

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

Just starlight and some small scribbling across vinyl.

I don’t
know why
I’m in the garden
kneeling on dirt

Do not say anything anybody else has said ever. Things are not “bleached by sun.”