The year turns four.
April weeps: the vootery
Of a heart too weak
To hold the stifling tears until December.
How does concrete, insensate, inanimate
Promise a green, smoldering summer?
Of wan cauliflowers rains
Relics of December
On a blue wedding day.
Grey concrete is never tender.
How vain is the embrace
Between stone and rain: a waste
Of a moldy wedding cake?
The year turns five.
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