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

my father holds
his favorite drink

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.

how does an afternoon turn
on its axis?

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

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

you quit wearing pants
loaf around your yard
in hole-nipped panties

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

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.

You let the yellow glow
from eye sockets. The building up the street
is burning faster and faster.

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

There is so little left of the tomato plants.

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

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…

I want to roll in this moment until I become its vocabulary
until I smell like the bones
until I am its echo…

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