in one simple swath a glimpse of what would
naturally be each individual season in Arkansas
or Boston. We almost had summer in San Jose
night before last. Earlier in the day it was clearly
autumn. I didn’t actually see a snowflake,
but still. Waters run deep. No pun intended
here, just trying to get at the hazy borders between
the jagged (or lopsided) clouds and the sky this
somewhat steadfast Monday. Reading about
movies I don’t remember and taking old flames
out to lunch (“he doesn’t talk much”).
Allergies this morning. A raucous weekend
(wreaking havoc) on the brain. Still
waters run deep. This has never been said
of me. Nothing complex here. Only more
poems. Pulitzer Prize winners. June arrives,
almost perky. The stapler is mouthing off
at the tape dispenser, and a little curl of sweat
forms between my neck and shirt-collar. The
cool air numbs my tongue so that I am given to
dampened chortles at the drive-in cinema. I grab
an oar and beat the living daylights out of the
jacuzzi. Kelsey Grammer has a mild heart attack.
