It's been a year, drinking
As the globes rush away.
What if this were the kind you don't get over?
What if the sun-baked churches
and stained glass windows
with angels' heads angled
for eternal forgiveness, and this tart
razor-thin smoke lurking around them
were always to be tied to my
knotted gut like newlywed tin cans -
my version of ever after, just not happily.
He wasn't even happy, not even once,
He said, and so steered himself assuredly away, -
from under the buttermilk sky, and the days
without ears, and the frostbitten laments.
Where are my tools, then, to plod in the
Opposite direction - did he take them? -,
what do I have, then, to balloon me upwards,
stop spasming stifled sobs, skulking
behind desks and elevators,
and to think that this, too,
will be over?