Goodbye April, if anything should linger let it crouch close to thistle to evaporate like last night's rain,
exhaulted by transcendence, though nothing is forever, let us rejoice in the sorrow we have stolen from others,
sown like patches on jackets or over torn knees, born to grieve, headstones like mounds of dead leaves.
April I sing you a sonnet as cruel as any and sharper to dull ears
content to debate road work and other forms of separation, I will have nothing to do with any of it.
April it's day I don't know of a war I never learned enough about to really remember,
all the photographs seem like gun ads, all the talk of liberation has left me confined.
April when we meet again will you swoon like some greek chorus searching for the validity of flesh?
Will you tempt me like some strange mortal whose outgrown the village, bored at the alter
before the spectacle of the ritual of the rotting mind, sworn to his sword to dream of penetration,
More like Achilles than Jesus, the ghosts of dead languages swelter in your passing.
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