Cruelty of Glass
I guess the mowers hum a coming summer's dirge. I guess
the grass bleeds its green perfume. I guess blossoms
rot like slow explosions. Cruel glass—a spring breeze
always beyond the window. At least sun-heat
can seep through. At least my eyes don't swim
in pollen. At least nothing here reminds me of you.
Chas Holden was raised outside the DC beltway, received his MFA from Eastern Washington University, and now lives and works in Seattle. Some of his earlier poems can be found in Neon, Hot Metal Bridge, Section 8, and Potluck.