thank you and i'm sorry
tell me it's break time

this apple did not even try
to fall far

an idea on the side of your head
pains you and is unsightly.

from there the bulge grows

chicken poxes itself all over

your body is a quiet bitch

it takes what you feed it,
faking till you fall asleep.

when things get really bad, she rips her face off, piece by piece.

mom doesn't see like she used to.
she knows, but she doesn't say so.

firework fingers
flash-frozen faces

all is guilt

i am a stand-in
for my good friend
here be the words
of an eternal life
on earth as it is
in heaven.

eighteen years later

in a different country
as a different person
lost again
when she turned her back

no terror, just embarrassment
still from the same feeling
of abandonment
detached from the hand

this time
played out like normal
the event did not dilate
i'd already turned and left

there was no mother to find,
nor crowds to break through.
there were rows and rows,
ordered and static

awaiting their days of consumption,
i passed through them all, exited,
took my scarf off, slung it over,
and went upstairs to find you.

you can only eat so much plain.
should you have the sugar sprinkled?
should you have the butter and jam.

you should have it.
then you shall have more.

brazil nuts.

she says as i force the wrench down
do you know people can go crazy
thinking about someone, thinking

my aunt waited for her daughter
every day at the train station
for a train that never came

how easy transportation is these days
i'd walked from dawn to midnight
now there are hundreds of readymade lines

and there are more underground

behind you there is a girl in red

she is laughing with her head atilt

her left foot is lifted her sandal slipping

her bag has just dropped to her elbow

the fire speck looks like an earring 

beside her face

there is another

you are smiling at her the way she holds

your hand

thin

how it fits.

you sound like a fortune cookie
who doesn't give a shit.

the homeless dog follows you
because you feed him.

like a straw through the yogurt bag
suck it all out

red pulls on a train of snow
empty the house of people

a vacant car
with a pile of nothing

a grove of middle-aged trees
stand losing their hair

the very last word
was buried last winter.

From water to mud, the goldfish dulls,
sinks to home in a long winter's journey.
The river soft, runs through my hand.
Sounding whispers, time turns gentle.