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

I suffer visions and many indignities
while looking for the Lobster

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

I myself should never have been born

here is the sky in stop motion, flickering,
a still shot in monochrome

Just starlight and some small scribbling across vinyl.

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

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

If my life was the size of my arm, I would stretch it out for you.

I have an axe
with hearts gashed

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

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

Lights on the dashboard spell out
“You still can’t kiss me”

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

You let the yellow glow
from eye sockets. The building up the street
is burning faster and faster.

You’ve spent a lifetime training
for this.