1764

The saddest noise, the sweetest noise,
  The maddest noise that grows,—
The birds, they make it in the spring,
  At night’s delicious close.

Between the March and April line—
  That magical frontier
Beyond which summer hesitates,
  Almost too heavenly near.

It makes us think of all the dead
  That sauntered with us here,
By separation’s sorcery
  Made cruelly more dear.

It makes us think of what we had,
  And what we now deplore.
We almost wish those siren throats
  Would go and sing no more.

An ear can break a human heart
  As quickly as a spear,
We wish the ear had not a heart
  So dangerously near.

suddenly i know
where you are on thursdays at 8 pm
the number of pillows in your bed
and what you and your grandma talks about

you only ever saw
the drawn out clothes in my wardrobe
and my hallway plant

all i craved
i got
momentarily

and then
you left

back on the sofa
count the patterns on my wall

no, i know
it was what it was
nothing more
nothing less
i guess

but i rather not have this new knowledge
in the back of my chest
it interrupts my important plans
staring at the wall