2017*

I hear the first mourning doves of the year
somewhere high in the branches of this toohot day
like your calling me then going away

You are sick, sick
your head implodes with the fetid treacle
of thought.

and i have done what i could
this is:
nothing.

i will marry one day and be happy
fat and glowing, tenderhearted
i will send you a letter

perhaps you will know
if you want to know
but for me this year is this

the talking too much
and hating the
taste of cherries

the last blue nights by the fountain have passed
there are scarcely poems to write.
a plane flies high in the sky

white and dry
to jump from it,
broken parachute

and land at your feet, liquified
is a fate of which i
can only fantasize.