Now that the Israeli has left, it falls
on me to make the salad.

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

Every so often, they add a tattoo
in honor of some long-forgotten love.

Even as the sun warms the concrete
the long nights’ sensual cold lingers in my clothes.

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

Any still figure at mid-late evening, when the long shadows make even crumbs appear arranged like furniture.

It is the 70s. 1970s? 2570s? Who knows?
Audre and I have a penthouse in New York.

and then her eyes fully opened — blazed through with strands of mud

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

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

You said it was okay to blame
what goes wrong on the planet

a folksome, gruesome opera
of gauze and malcontent.

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.

The sin is existing.

I am still waiting for the lion

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

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

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

I count my homes—
those of my scattered youth
the sanctuary of our young family
the intermittent rest stops
of apartments and vacations.

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