If my life was the size of my arm, I would stretch it out for you.

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

you know that
baby swallows make silver ripples
in wild rivers to court reeds?

Try not to see your own predicament in every fucking thing.

You’ve spent a lifetime training
for this.

Even from this distance I could go out
the door it would bang shut and crumble

Lights on the dashboard spell out
“You still can’t kiss me”

I tap at the alphabet while a single deer
taps at the dirt beyond the brush
on the far side of the tree line.

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

I have observed, the theorist
I am

and apples, mackintosh mostly, but any kind left in The Pub
at the Assisted Living Place

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

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

We found in his suitcase T-shirts, his siddur, gifts he bought for his grandchildren…

my father holds
his favorite drink

Part of being a good sad person
is always painting the shadows
in the right direction and knowing
what sorrow to art with.

We stop doing dishes while
a mile unwinds
from the tree outside.

Okay, picture this: We’re in an elevator. The elevator shuts down. It doesn’t matter where we’re going, only that we’re alone.

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