but then do you watch as      fog comes
to run its      fingers      rose- & lime-colored &
oyster-shell-jagged      over your windows? /      do you find
 
your poems      affirming life      in a dreary way —
pale apples      literary casts of sunlight      secondhand
sexual unities? /      my refuge rises      sturdy as an iris
 
yet      I haven’t been doing very well      lately
even whole      & pious food      upset my guts
& I twist      & pinch little things into      real-deal irritations
 
sunup’s      runny gold /      my forgetfulness leaks
as beneath me      the new season      palpitates
& daffodils vindicate      the one already      at work the one
 
who varies & varies & varies /      it’s easy      to get married
to halfway-promise      half-way mention      streaks of rain
on a bay window      marking time /      but
 
doesn’t each speech act      snuff one old habit      fill a single skeleton
with      arrowhead flowertips fluttering /      nothing wrong
in looking      at you own life &      saying as
 
to a hurt child: oh honey /      but sometimes the recognition is      in thinking I’ll be
fine again      soon / fooled into loving      these changeful
phantasmagoria & my own vulgar      bluster /      once more adoring as
 
the rain does this raggy      & disputed process      streched
tight      between two eternities /      that white respiration
& breathing-sense      to the day /      that time of year
 
you stop counting      signs of spring /      sad sparrows /
who do you      know      that would choose the cross? /
not me      certainly      I’m as shot
 
full of holes      as this stop sign /      as covered over
by      stinky blossoms /      that feeling
of pointlessness seeping      out from the      small things /