who were you not in love with?

the wild that rose up

from a bed of ashes. which was

surrounded by chrysanthemums.

and there was

all quiet around it. all summer,

it was the video games and black tea,

and who were you not in love with?

it was just july, only

the seventh month of the year.

yet like lighting lines of baking soda,

nothing makes meaning out of life.

which imitates art, and is

not dependent on what meaning

may be extracted. may tolerate

a misspelling on a napkin

as innovation, because

everyone knows success is stagnation.

play house with a half-box of trojans.

you think that's maybe why mornings

look like bacardi-lolita-fractured-flashes

of shameless moments and briefly loosening

to find the spring has disjointed itself.

now in parts: chrysanthemums, dry brooks

dry ashes. but where was the fire —

and who were you not in love with?

the startled that rose up

from an unloaded nest. where

the children are asleep

in the tip; memories of what is

in the future, which is august.

that is not spring

anymore, or approaching.

that is not feeling, or even aware

of an existence of meaning.

and who were you not in love with?