a fresco painted centuries prior reduced to the sum
of its pixels, on the wall beside the bed we cover up
something worse than bad photography then argue
nightly about the artist

- - -

a planet comprised of water and no water, God’s
teeth soaking in hurricane liquid or the last of the
storm encased clearly behind glass

- - -

more poems than years I promised you a pack
on payday, I promise, I’ve been writing

- - -

I’ll meet you in a closet with two guns