Like clay I have been shaping a melancholy
for you. It is solid.
It is real enough, sterile: plant
it and it will grow
nothing, nothing. A hood
to pull over your head, to disappear in.
A rotten peach, deflating,
losing form. A handful of feathers
thrown in the wind. A diaspora—
formless, but still solid.
And what do you have for me?
A mania. Wine
A person’s shadow,
sprouting where no one stands.