if he were to leave like
a passing storm,
tracked by a team
of experts,
but, swept out to sea,
forgotten by forecasters
but remembered by fish.

if he chose to
leave on terms
gathered,
saying goodbye in a
short note of giving:

“Heather,
Your pretty face wasn’t enough,
I saw the *** marks and
I actually feared them.
Mike,
You ****** at soccer,
the idea it was better than
baseball disgusted me,
Gail,
Your younger years made
my whole life whole,
remember that,
Trisha,
I always loved your pies,
blueberry, pumpkin,
who could leave out apple,
John,
I leave to you my
knuckleduster,
Fred,
to you my ’69 chevy,
Uncle Steve my
Who Pinball machine,
Helen,
my distasteful character.
Mary,
my married heart.
Jesus,
you know.

and my putrid eyes to a ****** of magpies”.

in trading trees for
skyscrapers

in jamming calloused feet into
crocodile arlo’s

in laying on a flat cot while neon
fires brightened

city windows

the forest remembered

a tepid breeze
                             pulling a shade over the sun
                         with summers leaves
leaving it partially
                             exposed
                         to flickers of yellow slicing into
a black stream
                             you dipped your red hair
                         into when I last saw you.

her
curvature
enhanced a
perception;
a woman
yes,
an articulated vanilla
doll most certainly. this
can’t be what you want,
he said to himself.
you’re a child,
he thought.
but her figure moved like
he wanted,
tight on the chest, a slight bust
with hips to accentuate her
leanness.
her purple lips did not worry him,
but the lack of eye sockets
may have.
as his hand fell into his jeans
a managers hand snatched a phone.
he turned and left hurriedly
the same way he came in;
through women’s outerwear and




alone.