You know I'm feeling so generous today.
I love to play games.

Maybe it’s not interesting to you to be part of history.

That’s the way I was.

Running and book in the evening.

You’re not that guy anymore.

You always think you’re that guy,

molded by age.

Now people know.

Outside in the courtyard, looking for the moon.

We all gave up because we couldn’t find her.

Stop hiding, it’s just a game.

In the garden with Martha

Do you want really wild looking things?

A beautiful photograph. I want them right by me.

The principle of a lollipop,

they'll come back and back,

the trumpets of lovely regalia.

Autumn blooming naked ladies,

no leaves,

no nothing,

blown-back heads,

deep purple lips.

Daffodil will do it best.
Nothing you do can stop this thing flowering.

Crocus, these easy things
Martha planted and planted.
All the lillies. Prepared the bed.

Anemones, sunny slopes.

Young gardener walked the property.

Casablanca, high fragrance, upward scales

stalking, bone-meal and roots.

My hands are heavy.

Autumnal Nadir

I know your vertebrae,
the character of your flesh and freckles.
I've watched you sleep
and saw your eyes as Venus traps,
beautiful lashes
that waited to consume
the part of me
that equated to nagging/useless insects.
If I tilted my head,
they smiled at me.

Pretending we both died,
my tongue will forget
about the curl and throat.
I could shed my years like winter coats,
taunting the frost.

Thanksgiving

Pouncing on it like a wild dog,
your mother’s hand with a fork.

Don’t be the host.
We want you to dress just like her.

Occasionally he just doesn’t pay attention; maybe he doesn’t get enough sleep.
My grandpa has pictures of me in diapers.
A lot of us have pictures of us in diapers.

What’s amazing about that guy is his ears—they’re like satellite dishes.
He doesn’t produce much odor.
I’m going to have to put plastic on my furniture.
Give him the bottle, Ellen. I have some Wild Turkey left.

Back

They share your cigarettes from block to block
around the city heart.
My conciliatory laughs, wishing I smoked
so I could subtly/casually make my claim
with spit and carcinogen.
Our amends leak slowly like bruises.

My frustration with snow is I can never keep it off my boots
when it's falling and I'm traipsing through,
and it's time to shut down for the night,
for the cold,
for all of hibernate life.
Snow's frustration with me is I'm never settled.