poetry

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

You said it was okay to blame
what goes wrong on the planet

I am still waiting for the lion

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.

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