I am still waiting for the lion

There is so little left of the tomato plants.

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

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

The sin is existing.

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…

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

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

I have an axe
with hearts gashed

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

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

my friends’ fathers are
dropping
I mean dying
like flies

my father holds
his favorite drink

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

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

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

I am not a guide
for every traveler
of loss.