Find some poems, she said. I've lost all mine.
Remember, I said, they don't look like poems
when they're seeding. They look like trouble.
O wide and dribbling skies,
featureless and leaking,
saturated with the light of June
as we know it, the sun stirred
into a wobbly pot of milk
until well whipped and smooth --
Slop, O slop on me
your lumens and your love,
shed your mist of light,
drizzle on my bald spot,
prickle in my nose, give me
a cold of poetry: make me sneeze.