March

In the evening
The streets stretched the city
    Like paper moon.
The sky stalled clouds;

And it was here
That I lurked hour to hour
    Shifting stories—
A mason of words
Seeking refuge.

But the doors remained shut
    And would not open;
March remained hollow,
Fickle as the rain—

    And swollen spring! I thought of you
My softest poison; I thought of you
With the thickest of words—
    You whom March has rained for, daily,
Remained distant
And would not resolve.

Dale Chou
2005-03-29