there’s a tennis ball in the backyard when you come to get your mail.   there isn’t anything for you because I throw away everything with your name on it.   when I burp it tastes like roma tomatoes.   I stand on the deck wondering if the neighbors can see me.   the tennis ball is covered in mud.   I don’t know whose it is.   why is it here? what does it mean?   you say it must be the dog’s.   the dog doesn’t care, even though you whistle.   she runs from you and pees in a pile of leaves.


soap bubbles –
an empty wine glass
on the windowsill



I doodle, you ku — twenty-seven