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

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…

Ma wrings
a wet world
of colors

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.

We stop doing dishes while
a mile unwinds
from the tree outside.

The sin is existing.

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

You’ve spent a lifetime training
for this.

I have observed, the theorist
I am

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

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

If my life was the size of my arm, I would stretch it out for you.

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

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

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

my father holds
his favorite drink