my love too has died in January
along with my luck and that canary that used to sing down the hall
maybe some pigeons I used to know are still around
I’m still not sleeping
I’m still taking too many pills
and I’m drunk almost all the time
stuck foodless in the soup kitchen of my discontent
staring forever into eyes that look everywhere else but back
the worst thing about the weather is that it keeps sticking around
when nothing else does
when the newspapers are all going under
when the light bulbs have all been smashed to smithereens
I can’t stop missing things I used to think would be around forever
running with no hope of escape
the worms crawl on thin threads of hope under the garden of my days
the cans are all kicked
the roosters have all gone home to pray
maybe my moods will pick up
maybe the moon won’t seem like an ugly jaundiced scar on the skin of my sorrow
I rarely notice things that should matter
like goldfish and popcorn and hardhats
and the way the guts of the sky explode with every rush of another sunrise
my love too has gone somewhere farther than away
like some crenellation in the discontented Ohio of my soul
like a curled cat sleeping
like a seesaw of forgiveness
I never see the shores of rest
just a mirage of what’ll never happen
I am dwelling on winging my way out of here
I am kept afloat by seems of try
I am letting go
I am buried beneath the begonias
in the red-letter day of my rue
and on it goes
and on it goes
always and infinitely on the mend
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