Disease starts from the inside
and spreads through you slowly,
shriveling and bringing down plagues
till inside you're rotting;
seeds are rattling inside the pod
as Autumn descends.
Monday morning is gripping my windows
with drafts and fog. I wake,
but my appetite has been stolen
and I shiver with a fever in
anticipation for you, you, you
are nothing like her at all.
What mirrors would justify me today?
Vanity swells beneath a dry winter
and bursts in time for spring.
She was right: we can never be
satisfied, we are cursed and
astute, we are mad, surely.
My shrunken, wet lungs are heavy,
I find, when I'm slit down the middle
and exhale after such a long wait.
From your kitchen window, I can see
the garden bloomed early this year.
Already, the warmth stirs... (a chance)