What Flavor Preoccupation

Always a bit of gravel
or tar stuck to the bottom
of my shoe. Seldom
anyone watching
when I knock it off.

Haven’t studied a piece
of sculpture in over a month.
Longer for a painting
on a wall or dance performance
on some specific site.

I’m using
pretzel formation
to collect images
to keep from losing
my mind—you are gone.

How long do I wallow
in your death?
It was so long ago,
your kisses tasted
like smoke, not mine.

No Rapture

Your cat: unphased
by the relentless booming and yellow
shrieks of a late-night electrical storm.

You: awakened to wonder
if it’s time—time to do something
as hail pings against shut windows

the way car wheels turn
on gravel. That’s it—that’s the setting,
action, plot, conclusion, neither

tragic nor comic, open
ended as 3 am in May.