Every meal ought to be a poor man's last supper. That notion was how my grandmothers taught humility and gratitude. Grace. Because another may not come.

Could it be

that it's the nature of the cosmos

to try to protect itself

by exaggerating its chaos?

I once wrote a poem about it being such a dark place that even the marrow oozing out from its hacked bones tries to turn around and creep back inside.

I come to stamp on Disco’s grave

not sway four-on-the-floor beats

or patch together the Frankenstein

parts of musical monsters

A death vulture sits

On the roof opposite

To where I live

I show my house the pictures of you

ask it if it remembers when you lived closer

when you were a frequent guest. I feel the ache and the strain

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