in spring i am unreasonable with wanting
even though the winter was unseasonably
sunny, and like every tree on my street, i
shuddered with blooming in the dark.
it now pours forth like the froth
of a fathomless sea, devouring, devouring
and the sand, though multiple, doesn’t stand
a chance against this push and pull.
will the moon answer my phone call? come over
some hungry night and make of me a high tide?
i cannot believe i miss the peace of november,
never have i missed november, its blank brown
rustling, its suck of mud on the boots. its sack
of potatoes and other root vegetables, but
in november, there was no moon, there was no you
rumbling under the surface of me like
the earthquake we’ve been taught to fear.
we live here anyway. it is unlikely
that we’ll live to see it.