Should have found a job by now; should have slept in the night;
should have boiled old coffee before noon.

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

a folksome, gruesome opera
of gauze and malcontent.

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

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

I suffer visions and many indignities
while looking for the Lobster

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

Winter sat like a wolf
on the horizon.

my father holds
his favorite drink

I myself should never have been born

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

I don’t
know why
I’m in the garden
kneeling on dirt

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

You let the yellow glow
from eye sockets. The building up the street
is burning faster and faster.

It recommended
soft porn, as gentle prodding and petting parent
to parent might calm and soothe the kid.

You’ve spent a lifetime training
for this.

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