To February

No roaming, no kindness. So you come, discontent. Name me a suitor. Name me. Find my cracked hands, not unlonely, not discontented either. You’re arrival, and such a bore.

To keep plumbing, how exhausting. To find the cool ones, the gather, the backside of this. That unfrightened face, dull in half light. But we can truly shirk, scare the crows from trees.

I have the note, and it hides from you. All those shaking hands conspire. Nothing would find me so free. No street, no snow, no nailpolish, no database. We found spring once; we were grapple.

No found conversation, no mutual memory, even. But I have mine. Mesick, Mount Pleasant, Lafayette, Interlochen, Buffalo, Grand Rapids. The times lead to absence -- more loving than the paths we took. Or the jumbled shingles, repeated windchime note.