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

You let the yellow glow
from eye sockets. The building up the street
is burning faster and faster.

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

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

how does an afternoon turn
on its axis?

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

It recommended
soft porn, as gentle prodding and petting parent
to parent might calm and soothe the kid.

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

In my universe, my arm carries a heart and flowers,
my back a misguided quote

my friends’ fathers are
dropping
I mean dying
like flies

a folksome, gruesome opera
of gauze and malcontent.

I am still waiting for the lion

Any still figure at mid-late evening, when the long shadows make even crumbs appear arranged like furniture.

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

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

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

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.

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