Poetry
You come back, / bent over my things / like a collector, hunched, / touching, wanting to lay claim / to everything.
perhaps there should be another word for depression / we’ve become too accustomed to the sound
Cancer came and took a lung, / then came and took the rest / of him. And I wasn’t there…
You do not have to stagger around the house, / unaided and weak, / as the meds wear off or kick in.
The macabre moon / Once lunged at me / It hisses red / Hangs voyeuristically / Wants me to stand in its balkanized light.
Love, / from Germanic lufu, is intestinal and milky / like undug onions squeezed from mothers.
Thinking of you as I pick up flecks of oats from the kitchen floor, / put them back in the container. You know, the five-second rule.
We watch the gardener arc the hose / carelessly washing away the work / of mud sparrows, hornets and wasps.