i am writing the same poems
i was before i met you, where,
raining, i was then too pre-

sprung and ungainly and in-
congruent, lofting
plastic smiles

and polysyllabic line-
breaks despite the yellow
of my skirt. alas, you say,

and i like the letters in the word,
how they spell wings
in other tongues, but we

are far from flying,
drown down in our
respective sadnesses,

can’t remember
conjugations or cloud
patterns or what it was

to love easy. it must be
snowing hard, still,
somewhere.