snapped enough rabbits’  ankles to know  it’s no use to scream  I’m sorry  into voicemails how  many this is the last  time’s do you think  you deserve at your worst  sleep found you  with your shoes  still on and morning  caught you  with your stomach  leaking into the threads  of your dress shirt I wish  your shadow  would scare you  back to well  each morning I wish your dreams  wouldn’t …

At this point, I have lost track of most of my losses. I try to dwell on fingers and names, the little silences I can take a nap in. They never last that long, and I brew coffee when I rise. It all sounds dire, taking on a doom and gloom that reads biblical to some, more like dystopian science fiction to others. There are more birds tattooed on forearms than actual birds in the sky. Horatio only dreams of a giant robot capable of smashing his enemies, and what clutters heaven and Earth is …

Two tomatoes side by side on the windowsill above the sink, where white paint curls away from the wood—lifted by dish steam as it rises each night after dinner to fog the twin windows,  to bead in pearls of sweat on the slick skin of the tomatoes— one, slightly smaller than the other,  during the day, together they drink the dappled light,  which collects in the thinnest stretches of their skin, pools there,  and illuminates their veins, two embryonic skulls resting in all …

Our bodies are continuations of maps    places we've slept in     become sad in     made love in     everything that's been  through us    an alternate geography     sites of fevered reunions of irreconcilable arpeggios —On these rain-darkened floors, magpies In the music room      our notes     like water  down a sink drain     tunnel back into the  piano …