She wanted to believe that something lasted
beyond its cycle—love, cut flowers, spring—
and waited for the telephone to ring:
got dressed got taken out got pretty plastered
got fucked got sad got scared got home alone.
She took a brand of sleep and fell into
a lidless spiral, watching fogged outtakes
of here and then—new dreams of old mistakes—
until the blackness split her head in two
and in she tumbled, grateful as a stone.
The days begin to shorten, nights to cool.
The summer turns to booze and drugs to cope.
The stars shine sullenly and work to rule.
She doesn’t look to windows for her hope.