I wish my pussy could live 
in a different shape and get
some goddamn respect.

by sweet flour, sweet failure,
a daughter married old, a son gone bad.

In the extremity of anguish.
Lonely in solitary confinement,
Men have been known to perform

Something about the ironing board made him
leave it behind, angular in the emptied living room,

she knew that moo shu pork
remains his singular post-coital consolation,

The Impressionism wing strikes me as too
dainty for my mood, except for one oil painting
by Gustave Caillebotte, Calf’s Head and Ox Tongue,

3 days, 6 meals, 8 coffees have I driven
just to see the island.
I have turned off the radio 90 times

Wild asters. A blue
wasp shudders in the gravel.
Laundry on the line:
yesterday, the day before.

and the sky, to, has its heavy book,
fat with the glossy photos of someone else’s dream,

The perfect ease of fish in perfect tombs.
She hugs her knees. her sky, her soul’s, small proof