(here’s one poem)
October 2, 2015
My father pours oil
hastily onto the door hinges:
I don’t want the noise to
wake you.
I dream a girl
takes a long drag from
a short cigarette.
A light haze covers
the room —
it’s either smoke or
ambivalence.
Late at night, I
wake up anyways.
There’s a moth
on the window sill
and the dog stirs
lightly in his sleep.
I liked the door better
when it creaked.