The war is over.
The builders come:
they build doors with archways; the ceilings are high

A steep cemetery of a smile,
the last century—what a century!

Just its fur was moving.
With a snare, they lifted it
and sealed it in a garbage bag.

I want to take
responsibility, to say I made it hard—
I only made it hard for him specifically.

A toenail clipping floating in a toilet bowl
like a crescent moon reflected in water

steam rises under my hand
from a lovely coffee cup
cracked like the wall of an orphanage

while the palms touch and digits suggestively link
so movement of the hands of each
does occur

My family stands
at its end, stops
storm-thrashed

There is less and less difference
between your shadow
and the shadow inside you

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