Andrew Collard

I did not come to curse this plot of earth, brickwork bounce-house stricken with resting bitch face, or its Pandora’s box of kid-feet, continually thunderingback and forth on the fourth floor. Dear long-emptied birdfeeder,ghost, and broken screen, this season’s token cliffhanger requires I pack my things and disperse into a cold front of engine rips …

Whose words are these,refusals astonishing my tongue like broken teeth,how many have I swallowed bad days, allowing the condemned gas station up the block to be labeled baggage, the way I have my debt-collection phone calls, or divorce,or my apartment’s warping floor where figurines and diaper boxes idle?A sprawl this extensive breeds empty pockets, and …