As of this Spring, the ice caps melt inside his glass
in a fury of noes and yesses,

the pleasure of petrichor usually killed
by a necessary peppermint breeze.

No one minds
the aspirins sinking,

accelerating
with the days.

He broke up his casualness, it’s more
than a fling or a flight of fancy,

loathing and embarrassment mixed
until turning see-through.

5th floor, the angel suite
aloft the city gulches,

with quickening momentum
a runway for the morose,

the getaway –
confusion.