The time change, this forward jerk
look it up, Poindexter.
It will be dark again in the morning--
a half star from the night will fall like an acrobat,
and the deaf ear will snow itself silent.
All I wanted was a particular voice of yours;
the soft one, lavender-scented, rare.
I tried to let you know,
but the order of things was already skewed.
Maybe in the fall I'll get you back for one sweet reclaimed hour,
but until then,
stay out of the chronology of my poems,