and missed the snow on my hands
after Three Thousand Loves
let loose and lost on evening suns.
after their poetry seminar,
the better people place me,
and I go to death with Dylan Thomas
for lack of a better path.
what a week, she says, reading
me and the pages she prefers,
while I remain fictional
and maybe a disaster still.
the couch has my John Brown hine parts
and the tusks of the endangered elephant,
but it also has songs and Sundays
saved for this type of forgiveness.