as a lion urinating on a tree.
His scent sprayed all over me.
Has me restless as the wayward
wind, blowing in and out again. I don't

see him, touch him. But I breathe
him in the crisp morning air, in the sun's
hot angry glare. I don't hear him, haven't
in years. But as clouds heave their

billowing chest I sing out loud
like robin redbreast. I sing a song
of spring when we were just a foolish
fling. But the winters have passed,

hanging icicles of glass above
the eaves. I swear they'll stab me
if I sneeze. My fireplace lies dark
and cold. The lines of mine are

dusty rolled. They sit moldy in
the old fruit old. I don't eat them as I did
in younger years. I just breathe them
and get high. I'm a caged butterfly.