Update: I thought that if I really bore down, I could maybe maintain this one-sonnet-a-week pace for a year, but having barely made it to the 6 month mark, it’s looking like I’ve got to scale back. From here on out, one-sonnet-a-week will become I’ll-post-when-I’ve-got-something-so-check-back-periodically (nothing this week).

"I just need to know: Does the dead wasp mean

no anything, anywhere, anymore?"

"Yes and no. Failed and failed, we always won;

still - the dead wasp stands on the windowsill.

Read this several times, but read it quickly:

I saw you downtown; it was someone else.

No place smiles like you do. Your kindness 

is up early, prepping allowances

like breakfast pancakes. Sometimes I wake too

in the predawn, trace our sweet signature

down stairs to humble beginnings, kind words

from an asshole ex-boyfriend, ripe bromides:

You need to need to, and know you need to

and you'll change, like me, majestically."

Fate fixed as follows catastrophic bris;

a bridge uncrossed, but ever crossed in thought

now rained my Saturdays. White covers taut

obscured the sex-bed's sere obscenities.

What unattended candle, what hubris

compromised the value of our home as

the promise of an indiscreet letter

discreetly flowers in an ash pile?

All's pyre, all's been digested in the blaze,

gobbled and shat; a new favorite sweater

lies around the corner yet. Trust the maze.

I threw up then laid down in my bed, while

with the staid sufferance of stabled horses

I waited the first wave of divorces.

It’s all too much, but not enough; Ry, I'm

over here crying for unlimited 

wishes, the spilt days of open-ended  

influence, when a rotten dad was mine, 

not me, and that same dad not elderly.

I miss it all so bad, the could-be friends,   

all those good times I never had; homesick

for your old haunts, I've relapsed, squandering

promise every weekend. Where’ve you been?

I could've used your help as my half life 

elapsed. Friends till the end, I thought, but wounds 

deepened in excavating undissolved

stitches ask, finally, Ry, friends till the 

end of what? I'm over here wondering.