Is coming. This is a poem about spring,
which is too much. Everything is too much.
This is a poem about everything.
I ruin everything I touch. 

I ruin the jonquils, the daffodils.
I ruin the I love you.
I ruin the blue remembered hills.
The apple-trees vomit blossom. I ruin the morning dew. 

Mine is a peculiar badness.
You are reduced to the smell of your hair.
Mine is a peculiar sadness.
You are almost not quite there.

Which is to say, I am terrified.
Meanwhile the grassy goodness, the lengthening day.
It’s not as if you died.
You come closer and closer away.

Published in Sport 39, 2011

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Tim Tweets