Night sneaks in like a lover’s whisper: breathless, untrue, close. You wait at an unlatched window, conjure doors to close. I can live with
Only one year I planted pumpkins— carriage or shell for keeping very well— dragged them to the front yard, left them to grow old
My father’s lungs are full of fungus, great balls of fungus fibers. Blood clots in the sinuses. The doctors go in with knives up,