Every so often, they add a tattoo
in honor of some long-forgotten love.

I myself should never have been born

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

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

I tap at the alphabet while a single deer
taps at the dirt beyond the brush
on the far side of the tree line.

The storm passes without snow.
The car waits loyally in the back lot.

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

I have an axe
with hearts gashed

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

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

I am not a guide
for every traveler
of loss.

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

Winter sat like a wolf
on the horizon.

Part of being a good sad person
is always painting the shadows
in the right direction and knowing
what sorrow to art with.

I have observed, the theorist
I am

I suffer visions and many indignities
while looking for the Lobster

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