Any still figure at mid-late evening, when the long shadows make even crumbs appear arranged like furniture.
We found in his suitcase T-shirts, his siddur, gifts he bought for his grandchildren…
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…
Try not to see your own predicament in every fucking thing.
this is what I want you to to see: leaves falling because it is too late for them not to
Long after midnight, we’re talking about our first time
Empty vessels make the most sound, I think, as you rip the fairy lights off the handrail.
The sin is existing.
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.
I like to think I’m also sprung, released from the furnace knocks, done with the heavy meat stews and salty soups.
you quit wearing pants loaf around your yard in hole-nipped panties
The two of us toast to a man we both love, to whatever degree, clink our glasses and laugh…
Now that the Israeli has left, it falls on me to make the salad.
and then her eyes fully opened — blazed through with strands of mud
I slumped in front of a massive desk, a passive patient corroded with failure and dread.
Lights on the dashboard spell out “You still can’t kiss me”
I imagine that undressing a color, though, would be so much like peeling a memory away from the grey and the white matter of your brain.
Even from this distance I could go out the door it would bang shut and crumble
Yes I am guilty, I’m guilty. A sin was desirable then. Bring the dancer back to the stalks.
how does an afternoon turn on its axis?