Winter sat like a wolf
on the horizon.

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.

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

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.

I tap at the alphabet while a single deer
taps at the dirt beyond the brush
on the far side of the tree line.

I would always rather be happy than
dignified. Rather held than held
in awe.

Ma wrings
a wet world
of colors

Even from this distance I could go out
the door it would bang shut and crumble

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

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

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

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.

You said it was okay to blame
what goes wrong on the planet

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

I imagined a cascade of slow death for all / that mattered…