It’s April and I’m watching videos of dead men
telling their stories. And half-formed ideas
shake their tendrils from the books of dead men
scattering their seeds all over me. Oh people ask me
why do you write all these poems about blooms.
Oh people ask me
what do you do with all these blossoms.
There’s wisdom behind the podium.
Pile the books to the bones of your brow.
And down your handles of black coffee.
If you black your brow with ink
a fine sorrow will guide you through your trammeled nights,
these days fettered by whorled suns.

So I go out to meet the dead in a rumpled sweater
and a crushed dress.
And each day my humble body
longs for an egress.
All day the birds repeat themselves.
What are they saying anyway?