Curtains of Marigolds

There’s lights on and there’s mouse droppings all over the floor. And the only reassurances in four and a half months. And what shall I write? Empty of poems--in a haze of flowers and sneezes and runny nose: lawn mowers and a small plastic pool filled with water and finally an address. And a card bought so long ago. And it never ends. And I don’t want capitals. Picnics and showers and sun and sunscreen. Fungus on a face. White spots and freckles. And pee in a pool. And she didn’t mind he got wet. And construction and pink and flowers and flowers. And seth about to be in a hospital, paid for fourteen days and can’t know the time, the day. And his presentations. And he said he can’t hear the messages. And always in the shower. And not sure what supposed to do. And class was cancelled. Is he so tired? And the nose so itchy. And it tastes like I’ve been licking envelopes. And still, why can’t I write him? And wants me to tell something. Exacerbated. Persisted. A pressing. Flying elephants. And a lesbian. Fast talking and wet hair.