Four Poems

The During Months
Like summer in some countries and like rain
in mine, for nuns like God, for drunks like beer,
like food for chefs, for invalids like pain,
you've occupied a large part of the year.

The during months to those before and since
would make a ratio often to two,
counting the ones spent trying to convince
myself there was a beating heart in you

when diagrams were all you'd let me see.
Hearts should be made of either blood or stone,
or both, like mine. There's still December free -
the month in which I'll save this year, alone.

...