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

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

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

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

love is a soggy tea stain on a grocery receipt

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

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

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

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

I imagined a cascade of slow death for all / that mattered…

Gravel-scatted hell &
we were blessed to be able
to hold on for even a heartbeat

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

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

how does an afternoon turn
on its axis?

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

I like to think I’m also sprung,
released from the furnace knocks,
done with the heavy meat stews
and salty soups.

Ma wrings
a wet world
of colors

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

a folksome, gruesome opera
of gauze and malcontent.