A moanfully long
time for this to go on.

In the crickets’ legs,
grieving.

What a bright star —
no, that’s a can full of people

getting away.  If I could fly
I’d fly to them and knock

on the windows.  Wow,
they’d say.  What was that?

The grass hasn’t started growing
today, it awaits the sun —

signal to get moving toward
my eventual mowing.  (There it is again,

a death reference.)  God, I’m
boring myself.  Dating myself.

I’d never go out with me, who
am I kidding?  All this mope

and dim longing; all the snow
melting away, and all I see

is the trash underneath.  Spring’s
the hang-up season.  No reason

to weep, but weeping
is what works.  Ask the crickets,

who must be from Rome
and must be fireproof to have made

this a life’s work.  Must be
an alien song.  This doesn’t sound

like my planet, much as that
wasn’t my wishing star.