Do not say anything anybody else has said ever. Things are not “bleached by sun.”

Even as the sun warms the concrete
the long nights’ sensual cold lingers in my clothes.

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

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

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…

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

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

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 am not a guide
for every traveler
of loss.

I am still waiting for the lion

how does an afternoon turn
on its axis?

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

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

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

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