DJ Dolack & Allison Titus



from Domestics




More or less the end is ending

and our bodies are kissed up, watching

for wolves through the kitchen window.


At this temperature they sound

much closer than the ridge, closer than

the tree line, a fold of night cropping down


over this loss:

one rat bastard slicing bread for one

son of a bitch. Even the new recipes


procure sentiment. A carton of smokes

in the oven, the paper lantern on my breath.

And the starting point hums all


that’s left of our chorus: where

the whole tune folds, and quickly slouches

back into the machine.








Legerdemain is the keeper

of this park. It darns trousered

leaves to rags and uses no epigram.


We put a little water in the kettle;

we ask and pull. We know well

the useless the meter


that measures what’s left of us

in this suburb of dirty tennis courts.

Behind the power plant


trespasses the hours; behind the

hours trespasses the light

and then, when the light


is all used up

we ask and pull; the little fears

scratch their cheeks in to ours.








These awkward strains in your letters

Each a threadless distance between crow and lineament

and all the phone lines down,


the geometries unpure.

A few lists here, the reeds dry and leaning

whisper between paper bag mouths


wide open what flutters

flutters good then settles,

rest of the day gives the old heave-ho


and comes in on a pattern of light

no less trusting than dusk

dusting your legs, saying your name


in spite of names. Some salt; a garden.