In the seeming falsehood
of early spring
winter’s stark contrast
persists past the glow
of sunlight streaming through
time-yellowed venetian blinds
or the moan of a melting heart
and blood approving.
If feeling is truly first,
then I swear this is love
by all curious bar room glances
bits of garbled conversation
and this cigarette’s sweet perfume—
I swear it by every clumsy embrace.
If I am wholly to be a fool
while this moment is in the world—
I embrace foolishness,
even if it lingers
only for a day.
