Spring does not wish to come.
The snow won’t melt into puddled
islands of joy
and raincoats may not be needed.
The children act as warm as flame, but
cry as hard as diamond.

On the borders of the snow mounds
lie the auburn blight of old gardens;
it is a dry moat to the melting.

Have you figured out why the sun
still rises?
It is an April’s fool I think,
trying to get us to forget
about nostalgia.
Lying in the back of the truck
you sought to find my face
among the stars.
I found the stars in yours.
Your mother would not believe it
and in the end you didn’t either.
I will never lay late with you again.
It was innate and now it is
a smile across a room that
you don’t want to give.

The tree of winter clutches at the moon.
It becomes a spider-web,
mimicking the ides of March–
catching all they couldn’t kill.
Now these leftover dull daggers
have no use.

The postman is vermilion shy
and bashful, unlike the dairy farmer.
You’ll find out without asking why.
I could use a wick
full of flame.
There are many alleyways I haven’t seen.
They are stretched out among
the stale places of my dreams.

When the world you have
becomes nothing more than a drug
it’s time to cancel the prescription.

These are the shoes with which
I walk through my head,
the soles have been sold.
It’s always work work work work work
and they’re all having fun–
loathing gives such feeling.

I am among them but am not of them.
They care only about what they swallow
and forget
and laugh about losing.
It disgusts me that I feel for them:
nostalgia is a powerful thing.

-B.W. Gladney


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