Patrick, it has begun
snowing again. In it, age
comes impassively as
eve growing over a scene
of old kudzu. And it has nearly
been a year since I cusped
on you. No recognition
of despondency. No thinness
after meeting, as a trace
covering of snow would be.
Or early April, after this
winter's over, when things
fell apart again. And you
stopped shaving to placate me.
I want to tell you what has happened
in the intervening year
but love metaphor too much.
I want to compare unfavorably
the intervening men and
make a quorum of us.
