I give in about myself. I am not so good.
Three rejections by letter & a mad trample in the wood.
There was a cemetery next to the school
where Henri cut through thick in the mood,
sobbing into Ms. Engst’s shoulder. O Gina,
I’d call you if I could.
Where are you on the internet? where are my trees
with such detail? why was I up early in the cold
mornings, without a signature to hold?
Approaching Thanksgiving was a curious me
skinny, with wire frames & a winter tan.
Are you still with that bald man?
Forgive my vivid blunder
(and same to your youngest about her T-square)
Had it been Olney! O teen years rend asunder!
Most fortunate was I under your care.
I finish my cheap cider
with the growing memory of straw-colored hair.
