I promised no more
poems about you. Only
idiots write them.

Good: It’s a new brood.
Four years, instead of seven-
teen. Throbbing? Absent.

Yeah, my heart-wings lie
still. Panic, too! Thank God you
don’t cling to my trees

anymore. Burrow-
ing and invasion are not
the same. I know this.

Do you? I don’t yearn.
Come around and I’ll punch you
in the face. Try me.