By the sniveling river you learn yourself: patience.
Slowness. Melting candy in the sun,
damp of the moss, you.

Men will ask you where do you want me to come
Socratic-style to catch you, unstudied, unprepared.
Spit out the first answer that crawls up your throat
and years it takes you to realize—to realize—

You think, when does it stop. The petals of your sunflower
crumple and sink, unsunned.
Receive good news. Spit it into the grounds of your coffee
like a country ward against the unholy.

Pin It on Pinterest