and apples, mackintosh mostly, but any kind left in The Pub
at the Assisted Living Place

I am not a guide
for every traveler
of loss.

Okay, picture this: We’re in an elevator. The elevator shuts down. It doesn’t matter where we’re going, only that we’re alone.

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.

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

I have an axe
with hearts gashed

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

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

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

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

a folksome, gruesome opera
of gauze and malcontent.

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

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

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

I would always rather be happy than
dignified. Rather held than held
in awe.

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

Winter sat like a wolf
on the horizon.