so many more.

Lover #1 had no licenses. Didn’t need
one to play guitar. He jumped
off a stage to kiss me. But there were

so many more.

Lover #2 was made of glass
and tall and straight
and bottomless, which was
the little problem that became
my big problem along with

so many more.

Lover #3 is a secret
especially to me. I’m told
to pray and he will come. But
I only half believe. I worship
the moon, and she has no time
for such nonsense.

So no more.

choked enough to last
into my next
life. It could happen—but
probably not
to me. Once. Who

really knows. Best
to stick with a metallic
beauty and let
urges stew.

of limbs and tiny torsos. All
white-washed and naked
and smoothed over and buckled
under the expanse

of gray carpet
in an empty showroom
where the sales fell

short. Where they go
next is a recycler’s dream
I hope to have tonight.

of his voice and brilliant
wisecracks out my door, down
the back stairs, to the alley

dumpster. Done. I lean
these old wooden idols against the iron
base on wheels. I believe

in the potential to recycle
everything—the divers will come
out tonight. I wear this stiffness

as a badge of endurance. You
threw out mine almost as soon

as you heard it
in an age before reuse.

know. Have checked out
for five all but one
year of my life

in this town. A red
Q on this book
cover is no longer

a question. Quality days
begin to stack up
against an invisible wall. Collections

have their place. I don’t
miss the smoke.

clock on the corner. Welcome
back diamond-shaped
laughter without a live

audience. The flowers
you ordered for your mother
should arrive in time

to whisper one more welcome
before walking through
another open door.

to write. Poems
are tallies in a growing series
of figure eights. Notches

in the leg
of a wooden desk—

here’s where
it gets locked

in. Little deaths
and tremendous sighs

of relief
when another one clicks.

of how I would buy
and pay anything
to get closer

to that bastard
of young
with the voice. To replace

it all now
terrifies me. The sound
of anticlimax

is lonely and loud—
the young turned
fifty years ago.

a gate without
walls or a fence
to give it purpose. He swings

on bars
parallel to nothing
anyone can see. But he does,

and it’s hinged
in brass. And
he won’t stop there.

any hope
of true REM. Her tolerance

for talking to drunks
has diminished
over a decade in reprieve

till it’s shrunk
to the size of a single shot
of espresso

she’s going to sip
in the morning start-over.