It has been many springs now, Adrienne,
and here I find myself in a rain swept
city, staring at a shock of forsythia
out of a window - how we travel with our
bottle glass hearts from room to room,
holding them out to lovers who we know -
somewhere - like thunder - will leave -

the why, and how might differ but the end
remains the same - a trace of remembered
fires among cold sheets, and the echo -
no, less than an echo - perhaps just a memory
of someone - you - humming a jazz tune -
something about flowers in spring showers -
many rooms down in mind's bleak corridors.


My Poems