Now is thicker than before.

Deeply out of practice

Spinning,

like a top atop

an Everest of regrets

We’ve got an Andy Warhol sofa

in the living room.

It smells quite like a diner on Avon

I find myself unduly composed

in the most malignant moments—

Think of me, Miss Bishop.

The salt and bluster of the Eastern board

I secure my loneliness with safety pins

threaded through the tips of my fingers.

Cotton blooms sift through the bruise

O passion of infinite permitting

Lana woke me by the lake

It is rather dusty in a painter's attic.

The floor blurs the morning

and gives her back to me

I watch each known horizon

crumble like bleu cheese.

Hard feelings don’t take to being caged.