April Was Fatal For Jesus, But Not For Me
The seasons are not my metaphorical daddy.
The wine-dark leaves of cut leaf maples
spread like a king’s robe on the wet lawn
are not a sign the end is near to me.
I give not the slightest shit
that hardened winter buds
on the slender branches
of a sapling oak
are promises to some sad soul
that spring’s rebirth
is ’round a few months’ corner.
I do not believe
in cherry blossoms clustered
in the climate-varied air of April,
or that any kind of thaw
implies any other kind of thaw.
We are not babies.
We are disappointed people
like to die.
I don’t need summer days
on Vineyard beaches
swimming through my lover’s legs
in sunlit surf
to make me see the truth.
The caveats are ample as a bedspread
without the sweetened lemon suffrage
of an August afternoon.
March is wet and cold,
and so’s your mom.
Go ahead, I dare you to correlate
the weather that eleventh
of September with the outcome.
Seasons are the guy who swears
he didn’t fuck the maid.
And whatever I say about the seasons
goes double for the daffy crap
imputed by the lovelorn mass
to morning, noon, and night.
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