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

this is what I want you to to see:
leaves falling because it is too late for them not to

I suffer visions and many indignities
while looking for the Lobster

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

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

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.

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

I myself should never have been born

I have observed, the theorist
I am

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

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

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

a folksome, gruesome opera
of gauze and malcontent.

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

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