Every so often, they add a tattoo in honor of some long-forgotten love.
four-thirty a.m.
Even from this distance I could go out the door it would bang shut and crumble
I myself should never have been born
I suffer visions and many indignities while looking for the Lobster
You let the yellow glow from eye sockets. The building up the street is burning faster and faster.
You’ve spent a lifetime training for this.
Gravel-scatted hell & we were blessed to be able to hold on for even a heartbeat
I tap at the alphabet while a single deer taps at the dirt beyond the brush on the far side of the tree line.
Now that the Israeli has left, it falls on me to make the salad.
and apples, mackintosh mostly, but any kind left in The Pub at the Assisted Living Place
The storm passes without snow. The car waits loyally in the back lot.
Ghosts for hire, whispers in her mouth, cysts to feel, the symmetry of a gift.
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.
you quit wearing pants loaf around your yard in hole-nipped panties
Long after midnight, we’re talking about our first time
you know that baby swallows make silver ripples in wild rivers to court reeds?
Her brown eyes, how a fig considers itself.
He has stories that I am not in anymore. It’s healed this way.