getting over these white hot days
is not going to be very tough and
anyway
i’m something of a pro in these
matters, i trust
you know. so go on, leave if you
must
guess i’ll find another muse
and anyway the seasons will never
refuse
to go on changing forever. and every time it rains
lashing the dry fields it’ll
yield enough pain
to draw from me a line or two
there’s time until the rains,
it’s true
but even until then the scorching
sunlight dusty
or the copperpod buds that a week
ago were rusty
and now carpet the hot ground
pale brown with a soft yellow
or the kites soaring in the late
evenings mellow
are enough to keep me going until
the grey skies overcast
finally enfold me in cool deep
shadows dark
and then soon as i smell the soil
quenching its thirst
and hear the drops splatter the
leaves in the year’s first
rain, i’ll rush out to get
drenched squelching dripping wet
and these days hot and rasping
dry i’ll promptly forget
the whole world has loved and
lost so it’s nothing new
see, there are things that i long
for other than you
other things i’ll get over and
other things that i’ll forget
other things i am slave to to
pay off their debt
so go on, not a line for you will
i write
a hundred poems of parting a
thousand lamenting sighs
a hundred thousand songs of
longing all long overdue
a million aching syllables and
not one of them for you
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