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.

The storm passes without snow.
The car waits loyally in the back lot.

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

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

the man is stayed bent over the canvas
of my sofa. the man is me the man is him
self and I bring down the whip…

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

Ma wrings
a wet world
of colors

this is what I want you to to see:
leaves falling because it is too late for them not to

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

We found in his suitcase T-shirts, his siddur, gifts he bought for his grandchildren…

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

love is a soggy tea stain on a grocery receipt

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

Just starlight and some small scribbling across vinyl.

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

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

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