"Sleeper"
A poem without vowels
is just "pm."
There's no significance there,
maybe,
but I get really poetic
in my sleep.
"What's Killing Me"
Daily, I think about the ride
I didn't take,
the cab I didn't share,
the love I didn't fake.
I have a terrible personality
or a yeast infection.
"Small Addictions"
Going was always enough—
to bed, away,
on vacation, eight days
come home, run the machine
for messages.
Going was always enough to carve
a pit in my stomach
and put my friends there.