I suffer visions and many indignities
while looking for the Lobster

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

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

my father holds
his favorite drink

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

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

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

love is a soggy tea stain on a grocery receipt

I am not a guide
for every traveler
of loss.

My grandmother asked, “Does it feel like being widowed?”

Ghosts for hire, whispers in her mouth,
cysts to feel, the symmetry of a gift.

I have observed, the theorist
I am

In my universe, my arm carries a heart and flowers,
my back a misguided quote

The sin is existing.

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

Listen to me: I know
the winter gloom in
mid-summer…

Every so often, they add a tattoo
in honor of some long-forgotten love.