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

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

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

I am still waiting for the lion

my friends’ fathers are
dropping
I mean dying
like flies

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

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

and then her eyes fully opened — blazed through with strands of mud

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

I would always rather be happy than
dignified. Rather held than held
in awe.

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

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

Empty vessels
make the most sound, I think,
as you rip the fairy lights off the handrail.

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

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

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.