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.
