A couple embraces on the hill.
The boy on the left, turns
to embrace. His green sleeve
crosses the red field of his partner’s
sweater. He says, “we are smaller now
that we’re together.” In all opposition
to the self-help literature.  

Among the notes I have left for you:  
A stomach ache not blamed on waffle fries.
Who took the last Percocet? Who burns
their hand on a philodendron?
Who will eat the last of the leftover pizza?
Please make the heart sign with your hands
when you are driving behind me through Kentucky.  

I love the Piedmont Cemetery in many ways.
None of which involve the dead.
Because I don’t care about the dead.  

The list of frequently misspelled words
contains misspelled words.
This forces me to care about the living.
The dead are just much less active in publishing.  

The couple on the hill are dead.
In many ways, which I will not outline
for you.

I am a liar.  

Airek dreams of a cover band
“They were so awful,” he says,
“Mostly because of how they were dressed.”
This worries me about the living.  

Liz says, “When you hold a little bird
in your fingers, it sparkles.” No
one asks: what kind of bird?
This makes me worry about the living.  

Charlie mentions a cage with golden bars.
Liz goes on about the Picasso lecture: The curves,
the sexualized spaces, the artist rushing off
to stir a pot of simmering tomato sauce, “Like life
won’t be interrupted. Like life and work are intertwined.”  

Behind us, Angela is singing “A Memory
from Your Swollen Heart” the way she always does.  

I remember Liz saying it’s perfect (about Picasso)
as I cash out and sign the little slip of paper.  

Then, the steering wheel is too hot to touch.  
Because maybe its perfect too. 

Later I make green curry paste and wonder
about Picasso’s tomato sauce, as I write this.  

The next day, my body is telling me
four hours of sleep is too little.
Matt dies of alcohol poisoning.
Dr. Dave gets up to play Yes
on the jukebox. We laugh
and drink black and tans.
They’re playing trivia
but we are just barely
listening.  

Earthquakes and Aristotle is the answer.