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

love is a soggy tea stain on a grocery receipt

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

You are strange, my mother said, dwelling on the past.

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.

I am not a guide
for every traveler
of loss.

I am still waiting for the lion

There is so little left of the tomato plants.

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

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

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

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

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

I buy too much, for someone of my stature.
could pawn a skinny metaphor to purchase a plump skin.
its reputed in our lineage— to daydream a life that shreds our pockets.