Two Poems: Gabriel Costello
dishwater sky drains itself into morning I want permission to sleep. Itemizing my regrets is boring so I settle on everything. The historical marker covered with a black garbage bag. The weeks between seasons trees remain leafless and the cigarette filters are carried down storm drains. This is a chorus of sorts gone mute during construction, scaffolding left to rust. Let’s hold the same note for a moment. Let’s downsize our hearts so that they’re harder to disappoint. On the tax form I listed all my lovers as dependents. The lot attendant was an aging hemophiliac. We waited to be stamped an obvious red to continue towards the end of the block where the burned out trailer was somewhere between demolition and repair. Used car lot economics. The house is playing with my money. Expectant, waiting for the headlights to turn the forested corner. When the car does not birth itself through the guard rail, I am surprised each time because I assume the worst. At the meeting of local apologists we all agreed that the train sounds