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

Part of being a good sad person
is always painting the shadows
in the right direction and knowing
what sorrow to art with.

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.

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

Should have found a job by now; should have slept in the night;
should have boiled old coffee before noon.

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.

Try not to see your own predicament in every fucking thing.

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

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

We stop doing dishes while
a mile unwinds
from the tree outside.

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

It recommended
soft porn, as gentle prodding and petting parent
to parent might calm and soothe the kid.

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

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

We found in his suitcase T-shirts, his siddur, gifts he bought for his grandchildren…

I have an axe
with hearts gashed

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

The sin is existing.