Eve Rounds

these people upstairs

the people upstairs run their dishwasher perpetually.
the people upstairs never ever vacuum.
the people upstairs enjoy shoot em up games.
the people upstairs have conventional sex.

~you are cordially invited
to a private hearing
of the american
of the acclaimed bbc series
at 10:13pm next tuesday.~

these people upstairs are much preferred to
those previous people upstairs.

i’m being literal.
(but i see how brilliantly the abstraction would read…)

but ok but

write some poems that i can give him ok (but they’ll all be about the hims) good idea bad idea no good twinning and losing

a 5 7 5 for e

peering through thick glass your back to me is waiting any news at all? running down broad steps into your brotherly arms crying without breath!


is it the ticking of the third hand or the faucet dripping onto discount bulk blueberries both measuring time “going in circles” as he would

a poem about you for you (and you)

you are your own though your temperament reminds me of him your head is more ripe mango while his was more soft plum my love

i don’t even know

how long it’s been. haven’t been counting days haven’t counted backwards on the calendar. haven’t bothered to reread my own words. haven’t been missing you

the five senses

your blue eyes and crooked lippy smile which i inherited that tiny soft bristle brush for your basically bald head the white corvette a campfire cards