Spring Fever

I am spring fever’s bitch.

I am wrapped around her middle finger

which she has raised in defiance

of structure and order.

I cannot stop her

from spitting in the face

of all my responsibilities.

When I sit down to work,

She bangs pots and pans in my head

and I can hear the sun calling me out.

She wants me to burn

in the sun

till my shoulders and cheeks are

permanently flushed.

It’s like a hickey

signifying her possession.

“She’s mine,”

Echoes the sun.

 

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Gods

Are those your songs in my head?

Are they mine to keep?

Or are they just on loan?

Looking at you is like

Looking out the window at night

Looking out to where the grass

Fades from the streetlight.

That edge, that’s where you are.

That’s who you are.

That’s all you ever could be.

And I’m sitting inside, in the

Warmth and stillness.

I can see phantoms of cold

Rain and wind,

Slanting the streetlight,

Like shadows on the wall

Of my cave

Are you the things I see

out of the corner of my eye?

You make me scream sometimes.

Did you know that?

Do you mean to?

Why, when I turn my back to the window,

Do I

Feel someone watching me?

I always expect to see someone

Standing in that edge.

Am I relieved

Or disappointed

Not to?