I’ve strained everything I’ve ever
owned in my life
including my eyes
so I can’t see
your car is gone,
the way life unfolds,
or the ant hill I just stepped on.
your sad smile when I
didn’t notice the grinning
contingency roses;
contingent on whether or not
you started shit.

 

the boxes in the corner,
cat’s nascent urinary problems,
the missing incense holder,
empty toilet paper roll,
your mordant note, or
the last piece of vegan toffee.
the ants plotting their revenge
in the corner,
the forgotten ice cube on the floor,
your wilting gray shoulders
as you slump into the green plush
armchair you detested
that I brought home,
cat vomit somewhere in the cushion.
your face down in study materials
as if I am brick
or limpid fume,
and my feelings about where our
stuff should go.
        (back to Boulder)

the sunset in the distance,
self-will run riot,
God’s sweeping fingers,
or further than my
nose turned back at
you, my scrawny legs hanging off the
coffee table quoting McCarthy
to turn you on and
upwards:

“nobody wants to be here
and nobody wants to leave.”

“the glasses”

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