The storm passes without snow. The car waits loyally in the back lot.
anger, like you can sink teeth into, candy apple
love is a soggy tea stain on a grocery receipt
you quit wearing pants loaf around your yard in hole-nipped panties
People have always coped with flooding, and they learned to cope with death.
You are strange, my mother said, dwelling on the past.
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.
I’msorry I‘ll see what happens iLife
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.
it’s touch-and-go with me and weddings
I am not a guide for every traveler of loss.
I am still waiting for the lion
There is so little left of the tomato plants.
Even from this distance I could go out the door it would bang shut and crumble
my love is a glass shard, a knife made of madness and moonlight, and there are already way too many fragments in this house
we drove on through the blue seal of morning as the turbines turned and winked out their hearts
here is the sky in stop motion, flickering, a still shot in monochrome
and apples, mackintosh mostly, but any kind left in The Pub at the Assisted Living Place
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.
Yes I am guilty, I’m guilty. A sin was desirable then. Bring the dancer back to the stalks.