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

I myself should never have been born

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

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

I tap at the alphabet while a single deer
taps at the dirt beyond the brush
on the far side of the tree line.

You said it was okay to blame
what goes wrong on the planet

I have an axe
with hearts gashed

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

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

Any still figure at mid-late evening, when the long shadows make even crumbs appear arranged like furniture.

Mostly he ate what was put on his plate
snuck coffee grounds or dirt for a snack
Once a zipper Unzipped

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

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.

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

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

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

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.