this morning, the weather is cooler,
and there is threat
of snow again in the midwest.

there are
heart-shaped messages
in my inbox that aren’t
really hearts, just
numerical symbols
that vaguely remind
of my struggles with multi-
variable calculus.

that was a long time ago. this
morning, the cat
won’t let me work.

he sits on my hip
as i type, scrutinizing
every last alphanumeric

there are
fast-moving clouds
of i-don’t know-what
kind; they make his tail
twitch and my eyes

i am thinking
about storms (about you),
about dancing (about me),
about how they ought
to make a good poem

a story of spirals and dervishes,
the solution
to some deceptively
simple equation
that explains the mysteries
of mathematics,
or metaphysics,
or something.

the cat
is a terrible spell-

bitter fruit

i'm not sure that these are really cherry blossoms

we are lulled by
candlestrewn news-

casts into some sense
of wax-puddled forever,

by the delibility
of asphalt footprints

into the tend-
encies to forget.

dripping elegies
for the fallen, we

count cherry-
blossomed blessings

petal by petal like
a lonely child’s game:

he loves me, he
loves me not. we stain

our subconscious
in pink nostalgia,

as if we, too, knew
the sting of April,

as if we could some-
how make it better, as if

by our crying, the world
would be a better place

come May, the cherry
trees then in full bloom.

Dear poet,

i learned a new word today,
and the earth smells like a fresh wound
where tiny waves lick the riverbanks,
catastrophizing early spring.

sometimes the guilt is gone for a moment,
and eternities blunted by the marks
of sharp scissors. your questions
i carve into the shape of april:

if we shine lights on the moon,
is the starglow indifferent?
if we make dents in the mattress,
does that make this just

another lust poem?