With the slow months’
awful march,
the black men sitting beneath the
winter oak stretch and
gasp and hide again,
The fuzzy squares of my skin,
woven with eight-sided patches
of 60′s wallpaper,
do nothing to warm the sticks
of the scarecrow they hide;
the gift of the Wizard is throwing sparks
across the slow months’
awful March
is passing, taking with it
Julie’s grave,
bringing an ache between my teeth
and a vacancy to my glare.