before spring are days like these

january for mom is the month of throwing rotten produce  out the fridge and february is the vending machine month for me

frenching twizzlers is not the same but i've spent 18 years  alone with my clit and calories not knowing if they're supposed to be saved from or for anything and maybe i can't frighten 

being afraid away. maybe i need to stop telling myself  that before spring are days like these. at least scheherazade's  fear was attractive: a crimson dress she pulled off.  march trips over its legs

running late out the door and april  is being thankful you have a bad memory because you get to be re-amazed at how cool your friends are each time you see them. i like that ashbery poem  about rivers: the maine, the rhine, the rio grande: you think he is leading up to a pretty cool metaphor, but he just keeps naming rivers  and then the poem ends. ashbery is the kind of poet  my dad wanted to be and then stopped because he didn't know how.  the venus basket, hexactinellid sponge, 

lives in the deep ocean, home to two shrimp who grow too large to leave. their offspring swim away; the couple spends the rest of their life  together in a glass cage. i don't think your father loves me anymore.  may comes from the german maenshine,  green gold drifting through the fingers of young trees. can anything prepare you for your first kiss? my mouth was open,  so was his, the end. it seemed to make sense for there to be more. june is the first frank o'hara poem you ever read

and july  is an estuary  making way

for the sea. what was there to hope for.

tonight is august 

and soon tomorrow will be tonight.

As the sky goes on

about the awesomeness of flight

I step out of time's crippled wagon 

and I don't feel myself falling. I'm not

defying gravity, not

going home. I'm just blown away.