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.

Remembering Hal and Gail

island sunset with girl

looks younger
in love.

we haven’t been
there much,
lately. i count

feet around
your coronaries,

the hard-ish wrinkles
over my veins.
we need more red,

part-sun days,
thornless. river-

mud between
our toes, not
rose but rust-gold

fingered lenses
through which

all the world
seems wetter and
better for it,

like spring,
like summer
in a mirror

in a cabin
on a side street
by the ocean, yes.

looks younger
in love.

what i mean when we talk about the weather


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,