Ghosts for hire, whispers in her mouth,
cysts to feel, the symmetry of a gift.

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

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

a folksome, gruesome opera
of gauze and malcontent.

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

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

I have observed, the theorist
I am

Even as the sun warms the concrete
the long nights’ sensual cold lingers in my clothes.

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

how does an afternoon turn
on its axis?

I am not a guide
for every traveler
of loss.

He has stories that I am not in
anymore. It’s healed this way.

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

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.

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

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