In the hottest bar in Wisconsin the singer sings about blind white panic and crystalline faces coming in from the cold. The dying singer sings about love, and I hear the band behind her heaving quiet sighs into the lights. In the morning, the red crows bang into high-water pylons and fold back into the sky. The pines are deep in snow, but they don’t know it yet. The mild sounds: a moist wing, a finger in a trout, the girl with the hissing lantern comes down stairs like water under ice. This is my worst season, because I’ll follow anybody.

I kicked you out. You packed up and fell asleep on our bed, tickle porn spilling out of boxes across your hips. An echelon of shiva beads advances upon your dark nipples and the scar below your throat.

This morning I chose YouTube over poetry — cooking videos mostly, and specifically the folded Japanese omelette called tamagoyaki. Not because I was hungry, though I am — I’m trying to lose weight and fasting is part of my plan — but because I could relate to the aesthetics: thin layers of eggs, dashi, sweet mirin wine, daikon garnish, soy for flavor, served like nori sushi in a line. I’m drawn to cooking because my life lacks a plan. Every day is a creation; I never know if I can get it together, so it’s easier to watch Jacques Pepin.

I came here for a reckoning, so I took a seat by the window. At the counter, two women were sharing a bowl of beef bourguignon. They looked like nuns or nurses. My father told me to meet him here since he had an appointment down the block. He didn’t…

At twelve he was already taller than some boys in high school, with his stringy arms and long hair that made him look older until you saw his freckles and his bangs. He was so thin his shoulder blades poked under his t-shirt like dinosaur wings. He usually walked home…

Instead of candles, cake, and paper hats (which, let’s be real, would have been better) I thought I’d walk you down a funny path, (also: much easier than writing a letter) But sitting here, too much time has passed And now I’ve found all this regret: birthdays missed, others dimmed, plans Changed, parties…

Tom and Nessa came to my place not last night but a few nights before and right off the bat Nessa got under my skin acting like it was the first time she’d been over which everybody even Tom knows isn’t true. Nice she said re some books. Corny she…

I would never name a dog Buddy. It plays against all my instincts. It’s too friendly — like an open-palm wave or a toothy smile — and it’s too soft on the tongue; there’s no music in it. I would have to play it for laughs every time I said…