awaiting the first April blackbirds
in the soundless cold of March
i wake at six and drink coffee
and 'robins singing their hearts out'
in the Vercors montains, where I feel free
to list the non-book things about me
which include the saltiness taste of an it's over kiss
walking the empty rose garden in Berkeley
knowing imperceptibly it is the last time
and ink-stained fingers and speaking with a look
and smiling at strangers and shoving
broken madeleines in a heap in my mouth
to throw them up here saying i'm writing
something in fourteen lines and calling
