Weathers

rain falling freshly on freshly fallen snow already melted & falling over & over ice melted over & over against the dewiness of the petal to the flower the flower pinched by spring spring pinched by today is unseasonably warm it harms me softly I’m not going to worry about damages I’m doing the blissiness thing they say there’s one life but hey there goes another it’s aping the rhododendron cloud I stormed out of with eternal certainty hey there goes my summer bod there goes teleology a canvas is copacetic although a circus is dubious one of us isn’t frowning in this photograph we’re holding the diurne the doodad or maybe the day which one of them is falling down those stairs moon’s illegible when the sun sprays waves have endurance but words are feisty with no attribution I leave my room with the same words I came in with smeared as the clouds the heartclick the unmurmured rain calling snow back up to the sky because there isn’t time for that season that new thing it shouldn’t be happening the old is still here lost for words kingdom mercurial though gashed with plenty plenty of food water air earth tires shoe on my left foot the right one too each idea has its casement each year has its disturbances turning back to the flower to the petal to dirty spring it’s weather all the way up but rain doesn’t even fall these days can’t you see can’t you see the poem I mean it isn’t functional it lacks an addiction to life merely circles the earth all day all life oh dove of the ditch storm of the cemetery fluked instep of actuarial grace the lights going up to the no stars no sky again an expression of expression’s malaise have you heard about the seasons how they’re tearing down the clouds have you heard about the new kind of I’m

Peter Myers is the author of the chapbooks Brade Lands (above/ground press) and The Hangnail (Belladonna*). His reviews and essays have been featured in Chicago Review, Los Angeles Review of Books, Annulet, and elsewhere.