Parkeresque, by Rebecca Wolff

I’d like a
lidless

Vicodin.
Oblivion.

Countless
sensation of him

leaving the room.
Come back soon.

It occurred to me
fait accompli.

Clinamen.
Phantom limb.

Black cat sleeping
(you used to be

next to me)
next to me

dreams our lost
telepathy.

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Visions of Never Being Heard from Again, by Rebecca Wolff

I stopped by to see you but you were not home

marshland

the pure vision

my ancient lives all risen up and rising

shudder in my bed to come up against

a living religion; they get offended so easily;

blow up your hundred-foot Buddha

no problem. Entire mountainside.

Presumably it’s an improvement

on whatever came before

on what was here before

ancestral crypt your daddy built; a grassy hill; a patchwork quilt;
inadequately warming.