the pleats in the drape of my tragic disposition where my love hides
Art by Zed Van der Linden
a broken lamp taped together in the corner of my room
summer bugs at night when leaving a lover’s car while the inside light is on
and the door is open—say, in August
persimmons, plums, pomegranates
the nothing after a morning started in the afternoon
a melodica from my father (from his) from Germany
children on asphalt, dipped in chlorine and drying in radiation
wind against wet hair, frizz that follows
three hats—lilac, ochre, moss—all crocheted six months apart
the wearing down of the inside of my right shoe,
the sole pulling away at the heel
the way hot oil turns white onion translucent,
the way soap cleans day from hands