a folksome, gruesome opera
of gauze and malcontent.

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

The sin is existing.

love is a soggy tea stain on a grocery receipt

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

here is the sky in stop motion, flickering,
a still shot in monochrome

I suffer visions and many indignities
while looking for the Lobster

the man is stayed bent over the canvas
of my sofa. the man is me the man is him
self and I bring down the whip…

He has stories that I am not in
anymore. It’s healed this way.

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

You’ve spent a lifetime training
for this.

Mostly he ate what was put on his plate
snuck coffee grounds or dirt for a snack
Once a zipper Unzipped

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

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

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

my father holds
his favorite drink

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