I Am Living in a Lonely House
These close quarters kill.
These crooked chairs can’t forget the shape you made.
The windows reflect your still darkening body &
you hover like a gray ghost.
I don’t want to wait anymore.
I gorge myself on this indigo.
This stupid glitch.
These maudlin moods;
cheap mockeries of the year.
What is gross. Red-scarred. Sacred.
I am moving to a lonely house:
one without flowers on the mantel.
I found your shirt wedged in the bottom of a drawer.
A letter written in red ink; a silver pendant; one earring: a poem.