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

Empty vessels
make the most sound, I think,
as you rip the fairy lights off the handrail.

Ma wrings
a wet world
of colors

I myself should never have been born

I have observed, the theorist
I am

I am still waiting for the lion

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

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

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

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

how does an afternoon turn
on its axis?

You’ve spent a lifetime training
for this.

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

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

I have an axe
with hearts gashed