I have a moment of pontification:
The thing about New England, I tell him,
You understand why this nation’s
founders thought they’d stay. However grim
I find it in Vermont, I cannot lie.
The mountains are damned pretty, in the countryside.
And when it rains they melt into the sky.

It’s been two months since I foolishly tried
to write him. When did we finally end?
and was it only easy with him far
away and me in hiding? New England,
I hate you and your clear skies full of stars.
My petulance is allergic to your grace;
I’d rather be near him, or near… someplace.