he never smiles, only glares at the camera
like he’s looking right into your soul,
and wanting you.

there is no liquid like grief—
the moon pulls it all,

and my body responds,
begins to bleed.

Cheeks wet with tears, I croak—Jessica, you are the biggest fucking cunt in Somerville.
She giggles like a female alien, inhales serenely, and says Thank you.

I put on my suit every day for work.
It takes three hours.

The stars have no proof / of life but smolder regardless, maggots / feasting on the sky’s vast corpse, and like them / you were science before you were fiction.

the dog was lucky enough to catch
it mid-air, the bird flying low
searching for worms

or seed. The burial
is quick, without
ceremony. Some preservation…

“despite not being real
Them and them

the conspirators
and the voices

but more the voices
which I waited for”

“When my husband says divorce, / I start decorating the interior / of my cardboard tent, stock / it with cans of SpaghettiOs / and Bumble Bee (flip-topped), / re-do my hair into a wild Einstein / without the Nobel or any theories / about relativity…”

Sunday morning, / he is hard / at worship / in the divine / church of golf. / His most / ardent prayer, / his heavenly gaze / comes down / to this tough putt / on the 7th green.