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.