My father taught me caution

I have worn through two decades

I have worn through two decades
the way grease and sweat rub
into my white undershirts.

The clothes I bought are threadbare now
and the food I've stolen
no longer fills my stomach.

There is no loss, however,
only comfort in what is used up.
I'd like to hear my voice, once, unrecorded

though my throat is dry now,
here's to a new time of wholeheartedness
found in the vapor of tea, then crushed ice.

And a second laughing toast
to the undeserved health we find
always in our ribcage and lungs,

where we breathe like the rise
and fall of bike pedals, and say again
'bring light in the end'

when we raised our sandy arms

I refrain from the old faces

I refrained from the old faces
and the stretched, corded phone
leaving each untouched and unanswered.

A new refrain is singing
that love is found like coins--
raked, gained, and horded.

But sleep tonight in confidence
that I'll return home without appointments.
A clean calendar for january.

A tired woman and an old friend
came with shears to cut their cables from me,
but we watched as they fell as cobwebs.

when we first sat

voice

plastering

Leaves for the lake

I moved my mattress

I was twenty-seven

I was twenty-seven in the sunlight, seventeen in the shade
and I'll be seventy years older when the creditors are paid.
I spent two years behind a front-wheel drive
behind a semi, the northbound I-35.
And four licking a magazine page,
which turned and wrinkled.

your coat sleeves, your

keep me in your coat sleeves, your warm bedroom.
palm your sides for the rush of hot cider.
and breathe steam over your chin,
ready but not for the frost.

what to expect