Pitter-patter of its little feet: morning
awakening against shutter. Someone in bed, signaling
C’mere. When the kiss opens, tips into
that mindless place. Wisteria druggy on a spear-tipped gate.
Stone pine grown accustomed to the city, protecting
the swollen verandas. Shyness. Flood of
feel-good in the stream. Then the inability to feel the glint of it,
pitiable pinch of Was once. The phantom
suckle. Sensation of being filled, of filling up, a perfume
the wisteria—April’s ache—conducts.