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

a folksome, gruesome opera
of gauze and malcontent.

You are strange, my mother said, dwelling on the past.

There is so little left of the tomato plants.

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 suffer visions and many indignities
while looking for the Lobster

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.

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

here is the sky in stop motion, flickering,
a still shot in monochrome

I imagined a cascade of slow death for all / that mattered…

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

Ma wrings
a wet world
of colors

my friends’ fathers are
dropping
I mean dying
like flies

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

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

I am not a guide
for every traveler
of loss.