Many years ago I looked out my window

(there was nothing there)

I looked out my window

And I thought, "this is a day

I will remember," and I do,

Though it was nothing remarkable.

I looked out and thought

"This is a day for poetry,"

And I found myself a blank page

And, fingers sticky with

Half-eaten unripe apple, I wrote

Lines Written in Very Early Spring

Enter, enter.

I never got beyond that.


That night, or maybe it wasn't,

Maybe it was one of many nights

That mounted nightmares and rode

Past my window, the window

Out of which I could see nothing,

But maybe it was that night

That I dreamed of scars.

I dreamed of the lines I'd carved

Into my own legs at fourteen

And I dreamed of my exes, and

My exes' exes, a long parade

And every line reminded me

That scars fade in seven years.

I don't know if that was true

It was just what the dreams

Told me to hope for.


It has been seven years,

Seven very early springs, and late springs,

And everything that comes after

The fading of the first bloom

Of muddy, messy excitement.

I live behind different windows now.

The world looks different beyond them;

My vision has improved, as has the view.


The sun rises, and it sets,

And I do not grudge its going;

The apples are unripe, and ripe, and eaten,

And I do not grudge them growing.