I suffer visions and many indignities while looking for the Lobster
Even as the sun warms the concrete the long nights’ sensual cold lingers in my clothes.
I count my homes— those of my scattered youth the sanctuary of our young family the intermittent rest stops of apartments and vacations.
my father holds his favorite drink
Long after midnight, we’re talking about our first time
Empty vessels make the most sound, I think, as you rip the fairy lights off the handrail.
this is what I want you to to see: leaves falling because it is too late for them not to
Her brown eyes, how a fig considers itself.
love is a soggy tea stain on a grocery receipt
I am not a guide for every traveler of loss.
My grandmother asked, “Does it feel like being widowed?”
Ghosts for hire, whispers in her mouth, cysts to feel, the symmetry of a gift.
I have observed, the theorist I am
In my universe, my arm carries a heart and flowers, my back a misguided quote
anger, like you can sink teeth into, candy apple
The sin is existing.
Any still figure at mid-late evening, when the long shadows make even crumbs appear arranged like furniture.
Listen to me: I know the winter gloom in mid-summer…
Every so often, they add a tattoo in honor of some long-forgotten love.
I imagine that undressing a color, though, would be so much like peeling a memory away from the grey and the white matter of your brain.