We were made over as strangers -
sometime within the month -
lost in a rainy season, there
were mudslides in your voice
last we talked and you slid
down a dark street out of sight.
There is a grip and a cold in your silent
sulking. Your selfish rattle.
Rural landscapes play out in your heart.
An airport lies in your immediate future.
I'm a day closer to April and for you
light increases and the wind seems friendly -
for a change - and all my organ
izational processes have been scrapped, months ago,
plans cover my floor, foot of the bed,
blueprints without a builder.
You've stopped drinking coffee, I hear,
and weekday smoking. There's a
haircut and a new outfit in the offing.
They whisper about it sometimes
in these clouds, on this summit,
in this basement too.
Rain on into April,
you can see me in June.
We'll make another pact
when it's warmer and see
who holds out longest.
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