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?