listen, winter: go home. the crows have long surrendered the dark sled of Autumn
they killed everything with. already they are turning into bluejays.
death has another face, another way of kissing that is beginning to taste
like strawberry

     I am thinking of old loves, and how tulips remind me it’s never too early.
I would lie down on this snow and melt it and die doing so if it would help.
for just one blossom could
be everything

      it’s like in the old fairytales before they were saccharined by cowards:
something must perish willingly so that something
else can live 

      the ice knows nothing of this until it becomes water. a face is nothing nothing
until softened with grief. see here, there is no expert on the sun wiser than
the heart. everything I am now I give up
rashly as heat
​ 

     iin spring the angels
multiply, the sound of
wings too much and
as with the frogs you are
challenged to sleep
through the beating
of the air that swims
though your window
and touches your groin
     like a hot finger.
​
​

a test: if under two
feet of snow, wind
smashing its argent head 
into the sides of your house
you can, with closed eyes
recall not just the color
but the feel, alive and 
squeaky beneath your thighs 
the way the breeze combs 
up down then down its 
collective back, the way its
army of fingers unerringly 
point out the wonder of the sun. 
if you are alive that is, if you 
have truly desired the ripe
flesh of this world, have run
your fingers over its glossy
bouyancy, have reclined on it
have thought you could
die on it--die happy and 
in love with it—you pass
the test, you are my friend
and now we can speak or not 
speak of other things.
​
​

      I’ve got a lot of good 
ideas but not one 
that will carry me through 
the end of March. you were 
so close, spring, I could 
almost wind my pinky 
around your hair. you had 
an orange magic marker 
smile. I don’t have enough 
windows in my house for 
the sun to rescue me. 
my heart is kinda chipped. 
      see here people, don’t tell 
me to cheer the fuck up. 
     I’ve slept with a wood stove 
for the last four months and 
it’s a dry heat. I try things,
I fall down. the wind makes 
out like it’s got something 
important to say. same old 
wind, just pushing the same 
leaves around. I pick myself 
off the plate of my bed. 
I go to work like everyone 
else. then night folds its boxlids 
around me. I’ve never seen 
myself sleep. could be that I just 
disappear then reappear
awake in the same place.
       I'm wondering—who 
the heck do we think we are 
when we stop thinking? 
I’ll never manage full lotus 
in this lifetime. can’t seem 
to get my legs over my heart. 
I have a bear’s body, a bear’s 
attitude. this pretty man-face 
is just a painting. you can’t buy 
a disguise like this but a hat 
helps. March has too many 
more days than February. 
      who thinks such things up? 
shouldn’t the months keep 
dwindling so that you can 
step over them with less effort? 
     I keep waiting for the hurricane 
or big meteorite. right now 
a single cherry blossom 
would do. or a kiss. yeah
I could get behind a kiss.
​