Very Little

To begin with

here's what I know:


Snow is wedged 

between pines. 

It will melt. 


Of course 

my behavior 

isn't geometric like lupine.

I mouth inconsistencies as I drag my torn kite. 


Fed up with the arithmetic of desire

I left the ring in a rill of sand. 


The bench sitting in front 

of this poem is bleached and peeling. 

Threats and laughter fell 

beneath its boards. 


Of course I'm haunted, 

aren't you?