Weary am I now love
now that I’m weary of love

      On a park bench after dark,
      practically begging
      to be assaulted, I—Wolf,
      you bit my hand off.

I’m a sad case, really: little things please me.
                                                                                     —Len Goodman

I drove 50 miles to buy a birthday present.
Why: not so much bigheartedness
as pleasure in the process—

It had to be some poet from Brazil
not one of the greatest, more likely to make a fool of himself
shuffling around somewhere in your vicinity or aspiring to dwell there

Over rooftops, over time
the rain washes. And walls
that had watched men die

All of you no doubt have felt
the soft sleep, the sweetest dizziness
easing you down on the bed

A child pointed at the sky, made it his, 
and then he points at the one he loves 
and suddenly it’s his sky,

So obsessed am I with feeling
That I sometimes lose my way when I step free
From all the sensations I receive.

I’m going to make a poem out of nothing.

Heads up, false friends use familiarity as camouflage. 
In the source language deciduous might be confused with apathy, 
but nothing could be further away from desidia than the timed impermanence of leaves. 

News
has it that late in the month the sun had an outburst