April 6

I long for the black ink and more lines from Robert Lowell,

Because Sundays are for sitting now and they don’t feel reduced.

I’m content behind a table and the wooden

Slats of my patio — Water, water comes clear and rolls off

The gutter to sink between grass blades and rocks, some

Channeling deep and draining into the neighbor’s yard —

A little river, plenty of momentum.

Days like these hang onto you, and call back all of the soft

Moments of Winter just as it’s passed and Spring is arriving.

It cascades and I think of brown trees in Chicago instead,

Substitution, or alignment — and there is no reunion in

Returning to the wrap of my bed,

Or April sunshine cutting its white lines

Through my linen. So I drift and miss the calm tap of

Someone finding my shoulder and saying

“Isn’t it awful out, I can hardly stand the snow,

These days are so grim aren’t they?”

If only I could go back to interject.