everything is quiet meow

of ending things

it’s another layover

walk twice

gone tomorrow 

predicting ponzi-pentagrams

paw prints on my tongue

prowling in penultimate pentaphones 

we schedule phone calls

as if she’s my fucking therapist

“coming home is

just awful,” he

muttered, nursing

the furnace back to full health,

a whit of paint by his ankle,

a whistle in the shape of 

a wife—lover, friend, compatriot,

whittle down your absences

and call me by her name. 

we took a long trip

back to Arcadia,

snow snuffing out

voices inside the car.

I stared at the camera

outside, stuck in 

Kavan’s Ice. 

I wonder about her

voice, most probably

soprano.

why would i assume that.

She looked at my dying

mother and said,

“you sigh into the 

onslaught of identical

days.”

we schedule phone calls

as if we need wartime before 

we decide what to say.

a spontaneous hiccup

has more glam than

our texts. 

“Do you hum to drown out