all i can remember now

the thing i wanted to explain

is this, wisdom cutting

through pink, drinking coffee when

there’s not much left and it

gets cold fast. last year’s thin snow

couldn’t hide me, couldn’t hide

the dark spots, the frost heaving.

it is so high now but this

does not bury us, we

traverse, we do no

crossovers. in three months we

will touch legs, our pupils

will close, our eyelashes dry, we

will tremble, wounded

at the relief of spring. too much,

a flood, the comfort. say it,

“you’re mine,” and i’ll say

“you can’t knit a quilt,” i’ll say “i waited

to wash my hair to keep

your hands in it,” i’ll say

“where” is this, “why” is this, and

circle, and search. you don’t like

poems. i don’t like pants.