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 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.

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.

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.

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