An annual repost

The Parting-Month of Spring

I am too deep in June. I feel the death
of spring in every nighttime twitch, in skin
that naps when pressed by crumpled sheets, in breaths
too slow to fill my lungs. I’m trapped within
a disappearing tadpole-tail, or buds
unfurled to rotten lace. I suffocate
in puddles burnt to oxygenless mud
or buzzed with mayflies. Summer desecrates
the green with brazen gaud and cocksure joys
too hot for memories. As harvest reigns,
the way young corn turned hills to corduroy
is hidden by a profligacy of grain.
And sleek July’s utility decoys
us from her deadly manners once again.

I don’t mention months in poems all that often, so I always think of this one when June tumbles around.

I did not write a book called Mr. Fingers

I did not read a book called Mr. Fingers.

I did not write a poem called “Mr. Fingers.”

I haven’t met anyone named Mr. Fingers.

I haven’t imagined anyone named Mr. Fingers.

I have eaten chicken fingers. I have ten fingers. It isn’t utterly impossible that I have given someone the finger. The word finger is quite odd after I repeat it often enough. But I still haven’t written a book called Mr. Fingers.

While I’m not above taking credit for someone else’s accomplishments, this time I’m going to demur. The glory is just too great for me to accept.