before spring are days like these
before spring are days like these january for mom is the month of throwing rotten produce out the fridge and february is the vending machine month for me frenching twizzlers is not the same but i've spent 18 years alone with my clit and calories not knowing if they're supposed to be saved from or for anything and maybe i can't frighten being afraid away. maybe i need to stop telling myself that before spring are days like these. at least scheherazade's fear was attractive: a crimson dress she pulled off. march trips over its legs running late out the door and april is being thankful you have a bad memory because you get to be re-amazed at how cool your friends are each time you see them. i like that ashbery poem about rivers: the maine, the rhine, the rio grande: you think he is leading up to a pretty cool metaphor, but he just keeps naming rivers and then the poem ends. ashbery is the kind of poet my dad wanted to be and then stopped because he didn't know how. the venus basket, hexactinellid sponge, lives in the deep ocean, home to two shrimp who grow too large to leave. their offspring swim away; the couple spends the rest of their life together in a glass cage. i don't think your father loves me anymore. may comes from the german maenshine, green gold drifting through the fingers of young trees. can anything prepare you for your first kiss? my mouth was open, so was his, the end. it seemed to make sense for there to be more. june is the first frank o'hara poem you ever read and july is an estuary making way
for the sea. what was there to hope for.
tonight is august
and soon tomorrow will be tonight.
As the sky goes on
about the awesomeness of flight
I step out of time's crippled wagon
and I don't feel myself falling. I'm not
defying gravity, not
going home. I'm just blown away.