The difference in mourning and morning
is you. Dawn takes away anything “our”s,
transforms it to “or,” a choice between two,
as usual. Wordplay is subtraction and
addition. A limit is the fifth tally mark,
slashing the rest on a friday. I do not live
just for the weekend. To lament another
turning. It all becomes heavier with age.
I start letting myself eat sugar and potatoes.
I add almond creamer to my coffee, and think
about the bees so bored of these blossoms
they drop dead instead of sucking up
more nectar. They’d rather starve.
Even the birth of a new year
is a grief, all erosion. In the spring,
I’ll plant lavender and scatter
an heirloom wildflower mix
around the shed. How can I send you a poem
without carrier pigeons? Who is next
on the extinction list? The future greys,
as do our days. Fresh air gives me
a hangover, and I am
out of stamps. I’ve already
swallowed them all. And I have already
donated all of my letters
to the crematory,
their black smoke
rising toward
dawn.
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