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

I myself should never have been born

Do not say anything anybody else has said ever. Things are not “bleached by sun.”

we drove on through
the blue seal of morning as the turbines
turned and winked out their hearts

Now that the Israeli has left, it falls
on me to make the salad.

There is so little left of the tomato plants.

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.

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

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

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.

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

I have an axe
with hearts gashed

You said it was okay to blame
what goes wrong on the planet

my love is a glass shard, a knife made of madness and moonlight,
and there are already way too many fragments in this house

I suffer visions and many indignities
while looking for the Lobster

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