The future wished me well, then turned the pistol
toward me. I wouldn't want to be a rabbit anymore,
a panic of plans exposed in the open meadow like that.
I wouldn't want to be the boy I was, dismayed
by a girl who wouldn't deign to invade his privacy.
Where are the snows of tomorrow, I sang.
And where is that song now, that thumb smudge
of feeling I couldn't wipe from my glasses?
It's over, that flimsy overlap of oaths
and gusts of attitude that blew me here,
where the notion of consummation remains,
though only as warning. I won't be the past's:
I've shooed that goose. Nor the future's: whether
I'm handsome at the gallows or not—no matter.
What matters is this squall that's kicked up
and ripped the dogwood blossoms down,
a scattering of white velvet gloves in the grass,
more words for which I am suddenly at a loss.
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