The need for new crushes has become apparent.
My current crop of affectionates are all of an ill ilk
it seems. They deal heavy in pain.
The ground around them is littered with eggshells: I can’t talk
love, though that is what has happened. Wise men
sing on the radio & witches occupy all my time.
This year promises a treacherous trek
already, & it ain’t even April yet.