dear friend, we’re it not for the tears held back—
but no, let me start again. After all, it is spring
and the half-clinging leather of newly uncovered
corpses satisfies the flies. But that’s not it either.
Somewhere around here there is a small book from
the past that I’ve carried for years and never read.
since you’d given up on running the show like spring
the game where we break each others fingers in spring
though the mountains take more we can laugh or move underground in the spring of shrunken expectation she walks away in the middle of a sentence
I tried to be two things but the paper kept curling and I couldn’t get a straight line so I decided to move to the next town where I met someone who reminded me of a girl I once knew whose name I never learned as we only ever joked about certain forbidden vegetables while we were in school together though it was more of a forced labor camp but when those ghostly blue flowers came again in the spring we were allowed a minute of silence to think of the photos we once had pinned up by our cots now long eaten by moths
she holds the umbrella and smiles spring
not to wish
spring a girl with a hand-written letter on a leash
spring wind page after page of the journal undated