Sometimes you bore me.
I glance over the rustle of leaves
in your rhymes and sigh.
Give me your deepest–
reveal to me what’s beneath
your winter coats,
challenge me to see the
green your blood fights off
when reading Frost
and swimming in the richness
of Plath.
I open my mouth to you–
a lion couldn’t match me,
in this moment I sing and
ask for help to pay my way
to South East Clinton
where I have to write but freeze
everything just by
picturing the entrance.

I miss red rocks and warm sun
She says I should ask for desert
landscapes on my shoes
“That will match your outfits.”
We talk about Sunnydale,
how the men on the train pale
in contrast to our favorites
on Buffy’s love list.
I keep writing and wade back to my topic,
back to cleansing your blood.
And I am nothing like Frost.

Sometimes you bore me,
and I can’t imagine saying
hello to you on the train,
what would we talk about?