love is a soggy tea stain on a grocery receipt

The sin is existing.

you quit wearing pants
loaf around your yard
in hole-nipped panties

Ma wrings
a wet world
of colors

I like to think I’m also sprung,
released from the furnace knocks,
done with the heavy meat stews
and salty soups.

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

The storm passes without snow.
The car waits loyally in the back lot.

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

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

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

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

I want to roll in this moment until I become its vocabulary
until I smell like the bones
until I am its echo…

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

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.

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

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.