this is the Spring we will all

collectively decide to forget 

waste of space March where I

missed the jasmine bloom into

curled fists, wasn’t there when

you dyed your hair

indigo, like the lake I never swam in

then April- the inexorable urge to

weep into the mush

a puddle, a dogwood tree,

a patch of dead grass in the front yard

there were no tacky plastic candles 

in your window for me, we sat

silently at opposite ends of a 

turquoise couch for a drawn out movie

with an overdone story but

you won’t look at anything else

there’s nothing else to look at

Winter wasn’t so much different

if we’re being honest

I was there with my weaponry shattered

any banal pop or clank- car backfire,

firecracker, served as the starting pistol

and we’d be off racing again

you tugging at my sleeve, you taunting me

keep up, just try to, for once

keep up



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