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Loveexpand_moreA cuckoo calls the hours like an old clock, only not the hours we mean.
Now only the single syllable that is the beloved, that is the world.
If you are water my left hand is a horse thief my right hand is alder smoke.
Come live with me. We could plant acorns in each other’s mouths.
They met on the app in April, shortly after her twenty-ninth birthday.
Oh, how did people do it? How did they find some way to be happy?
Make haste, my love, I am redrawing the scale of escape.
Those moments are all I want. I want a life of this. He sighs and I sigh.
It’s raining concrete. I bite my grief wetly. Who will test these chains?
“I want to stay in real yurts,” I said, “not yurts for Westerners.”
Blacked-out little angel, you shuffle home under the streetlights.
The child writes, Child, and is amazed at this word on the page.
Another year another almanac, a washed-out castle in the sand.
He’s an excellent student. It’s just that . . . he thinks ideas are real.
The old-timer outside the guard station was knifing his own tires.
Under pillows of snow, the creek shushes the sharp architecture of ice.
I am a pornography of small promises, the chugging gin of the universe.
I roll lactic bubbles under my face with rose quartz, fuck a pillow in sleep.
Interviewer said he had no intention of stealing anything from Subject.
Unwall the summer in blue threading, gift of someone who loved me.
I wondered if the coyotes and deer were mourning the loss of Steve.
She looked over through the falling snow. “Jack?” she said. “Is that you?”
Her body is no longer the source of pleasure but constant pain.
The neighbors were Ukrainians with bad tempers and owned guns.
She sips the coffee and thinks about throwing herself off the balcony.
At nineteen I lived for three months as an earnest cocaine addict.
I could throw one of these rocks at the moon and watch it fall.
home is his hands, our bowls, so many gay fridge magnets.
Don’t start conversations or attract attention. Don’t be suspicious.
The power to alter one’s life comes from a paragraph, a lone remark.