abandoned poems
I like to think I’m also sprung, released from the furnace knocks, done with the heavy meat stews and salty soups.
I count my homes— those of my scattered youth the sanctuary of our young family the intermittent rest stops of apartments and vacations.
I don’t know why I’m in the garden kneeling on dirt
how does an afternoon turn on its axis?
I suffer visions and many indignities while looking for the Lobster
this is what I want you to to see: leaves falling because it is too late for them not to
Yes I am guilty, I’m guilty. A sin was desirable then. Bring the dancer back to the stalks.
I am still waiting for the lion
You said it was okay to blame what goes wrong on the planet
anger, like you can sink teeth into, candy apple
Millions of Americans have been affected by identity theft. It’s probably the greenhouse gases.
Ghosts for hire, whispers in her mouth, cysts to feel, the symmetry of a gift.
here is the sky in stop motion, flickering, a still shot in monochrome
You let the yellow glow from eye sockets. The building up the street is burning faster and faster.
People have always coped with flooding, and they learned to cope with death.
Part of being a good sad person is always painting the shadows in the right direction and knowing what sorrow to art with.
Empty vessels make the most sound, I think, as you rip the fairy lights off the handrail.
and then her eyes fully opened — blazed through with strands of mud
I imagine that undressing a color, though, would be so much like peeling a memory away from the grey and the white matter of your brain.