#smaltalk

sleeping in is a bridesmaids gown dappled

with charcoal stars and a red hem around

the bottom your sister wears the dead stars

and loiters in gasoline she moved to

New Orleans took a good news crate a huge

oven a continuous crate I can

change that to a whisper she is a lot

going on here the patched altars are a

hole in the ceiling it looks good but it’s

a small event, only one-hundred-forty-

five mice she rode his hummer only girls

could save hundreds on reusable red

I slept in yesterday a half-eaten

paycheck stay a little bit longer he

said – yes he said yes – aw she’s underpaid

for a woman in – charcoal stars won’t shine

we, they, shared a sailboat on the white

thread barren terrain, the needles questioned

the darkness – pupils adjusted – too late

every interview trials me I’m

too fervent; those things will she’s not ready

for right across the tapered hall so we

did it on Monday they let me go she

is a program do I know I was gone

to die did you know I was going to

she drove me to the program I’ve done her

three times, we’ve died three times the chemical

is heavy she’s scared I’ve had

a little more than not any seats you

know the trouble with not any trouble

is – they don’t last but cost the weight of my

breath in driftwood sailboats to New England

voulez-vous quitter? you cannot tell her

excuse her for a minute he’s at the

wedding Tuesday – no he’s vulnerable

and hiking after she left the program –

his terrain now a slick slate of charcoal

after she left the program he’s apart