Wednesday, April 22, 2009

The problem with spring

Is that there's just too damned much to do outside. How does a yard get so utterly dilapidated over 5 months?--covered in a protective layer of snow, no less.

"Love Song (Smelt)"

When I say 'you' in my poems, I mean you.
I know it's weird: we barely met.
You must hear this all the time, being you.

That night we were at opposite ends of
the long table, after the pungent
Russian condiments, the carafes of tarragon vodka,

the chafing dishes full of boiled smelts
I was a little drunk: after you left,
I ate the last smelt off your dirty plate.

--Dan Chiasson


Ink said...

One might not think "smelt" a very poetic word, but it works here, doesn't it? So interesting!

Lisa B. said...

Love this.