Maybe I am guilty for the leftover
essays, checklists, and goodbyes.
Thence I flipped through the calendar
a commemoration from the future.
Crazy, cloudy college application season
finally cracked an end, but
my spring of composition was stolen,
though I know—or believe—that it is not broken.
My Spring.
Drowsiness suffocates a poet
so I become addicted
to enough caffeine and more-than-enough sleep,
unsaid prayers that buoy me.
By the afternoon windowsill I had the last sip, iced,
all the profound meanings disappear from my life.