Vanitas
You move me to the place
I feel when I forget
and become, ungathered, the motes
in your silent, Sunday morning.
There’s a fly on the saucer under the cup, feasting.
There’s a fly on the rim of your butter fleet, resting,
working.
There’s an orange peel on the kitchen table
and a glass of red.
Always your eyes, always your mouth.
Always your nails on your chest like an ape,
your shoulders tilted forward like an ape.
I wish you’d for once wear a shirt that fucking fits you,
not makes me love you.
I have given up, but not quite, not the right way.