Her brown eyes, how a fig considers itself.
I am still waiting for the lion
Any still figure at mid-late evening, when the long shadows make even crumbs appear arranged like furniture.
Live the rest of your life from one worst case to another.
my father holds his favorite drink
You let the yellow glow from eye sockets. The building up the street is burning faster and faster.
I imagine that undressing a color, though, would be so much like peeling a memory away from the grey and the white matter of your brain.
We stop doing dishes while a mile unwinds from the tree outside.
Mostly he ate what was put on his plate snuck coffee grounds or dirt for a snack Once a zipper Unzipped
I slumped in front of a massive desk, a passive patient corroded with failure and dread.
anger, like you can sink teeth into, candy apple
I don’t know why I’m in the garden kneeling on dirt
Do not say anything anybody else has said ever. Things are not “bleached by sun.”
The storm passes without snow. The car waits loyally in the back lot.
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.
We found in his suitcase T-shirts, his siddur, gifts he bought for his grandchildren…
and apples, mackintosh mostly, but any kind left in The Pub at the Assisted Living Place
The sin is existing.
My grandmother asked, “Does it feel like being widowed?”
Ghosts for hire, whispers in her mouth, cysts to feel, the symmetry of a gift.