Pouring out the bitter

You don’t tell me you love me
and I don’t tell you I know it. Instead
I make plans, steal words, write
poems you’ll never read, pour out the bitter
into the river’s swollen april browns,
swallow down cheap malt liquor,
drown the cheap lines and nights
alone with afternoons under the same rainy
roof, just like we used to, the smell
of your skin still intoxicating, only
you don’t tell me you love me,
and I pretend I don’t notice, put my clothes
back on, write the poems. And
do you know? I’ve had worse hangovers.

heronless

you will not know this story
unless you are here, how this river’s april
has so little of comfort
to the dying. picking yesterdays
through debris from the birds
nesting in our worn out
gutters, noting the unfronding
of lilac and hyacinth and other life close
to the ground, I hear sobbing
from two yards over, a woman
not myself, in agony. Stay close to the ground,
I want to say, away from the rooftops, the empty nests.
I call them our; not knowing whether it is true;
I have no other pronouns to offer.