I’m tired of these scraps.
Love’s three red boxes.
The window is open
just a crack. There’s tea
on the shelf. I’m tired
of these weeks’ dull
movements. Saturday
another spring. On
Tuesday, which is
also today, 20 pages.
I sift through tired
scraps of thought.
These pages. Not
I. Not the figure
jumping into a pool,
black and white.
Some birds whisper
through the crack.
It is Wednesday night
of High Fidelity.
Lunch poems with
a finger in my mouth.
