Yankees 5, Rays 0
In the ear of the ocean. Every time I go
to Housing Works, a bin of shells.
I don’t want to wear pants
anymore, the flush
of old love, messy because
I still hate myself, a universal outpouring
like at the game, searching
for you in our stolen seats, the last
time I stretch to feel.
At home after, hand of pills, memory
etched past erasure. I want to
dismantle my head like a deer,
only kinder, to save everyone
on the brink, even those filming
my ignorance, that reliable flame.
I want to drill you in the privacy,
to knock into you, a boxer, a stale
piece of bread. Come at me
with your grief, everything you have been