The hyacinths are drinking in
the mud left from the melted snow banks;
the winter looms in exhaust fumes
and bottles up the burning gas tanks.
In maple trees and autumns leaves,
the smell of rubber, burnt and branded.
The shaking knees of camera schemes
outside of buildings left abandoned.
Empty bowls and shoeless soles,
with rum inside a water bottle.
Lips denied, a year divides
our needs and seeds and human throttles.
You said to hold your hand, it’s cold—
your fingers curl up, lost in twilight—
with stories told and nothing bold,
the light bulbs stretched down to your thighs.
The tired night, the junction light
was all we had to go for.
Your needle pricks, my squirming hips:
We lived each other’s horrors.
No one knew the flames we blew;
the kiss you said your next “goodbye” with—
The spring anew—and all that grew
was singing with the hyacinths.
