“Are you alone?”
“Wait, I’ll close the door.”

Early I rise to
Catch the bus to
Catch the plane,
Another plane and
Another. Then
The bus again.

Passing by is the swelling earth,
Earth exuding winter.
April is the cruellest month;
Here it is May. Snow lays
In patches. No lilacs.
No crocuses yet, but long yellow straws
Flow like hair, unkempt and dirty.
This water cleanses nothing.
A child, I borrowed scissors, cut
Empty faces in the mounds of grass.
Then soon tired. I left.

Hushed poptunes follow
Our tracing of the fjords.
Daylight illumines the evening.
All is brutally clear as time ceases.

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