I myself should never have been born

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

love is a soggy tea stain on a grocery receipt

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

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

Just starlight and some small scribbling across vinyl.

my love is a glass shard, a knife made of madness and moonlight,
and there are already way too many fragments in this house

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

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

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

Winter sat like a wolf
on the horizon.

Mostly he ate what was put on his plate
snuck coffee grounds or dirt for a snack
Once a zipper Unzipped

Empty vessels
make the most sound, I think,
as you rip the fairy lights off the handrail.

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