"Climbing the Willow" and "The Loneliest Haiku in the State of Montana"

Climbing the Willow

now comes the actual 
cruel
and blissful hour
of spring;
I can see 
the steam, ripping off 
the rooftops, grass blades, 
green Gumby getting down
to that old
Young Rascals number,
hood ornament,
steady vibration, the Gryphon,
the Falcon,
everything stung 
by an insurmountable 
sun. 
Scents perambulate
as Min Wax 
and wood, all quiet
and the birds can hold on 
to tiny breaths.

I don’t understand why 
it’s breaking 
my heart,
but sure enough, there
are the requisite
pilings, 
sling shots 
and boomerangs, 
desperate

cries,

at an alien pitch 
the actual cliff  
scree of sex. I feel it, 
as so much loose
candy crush,
pieces 
of perfectly smooth

human chrome, cooing
and cooling 
on the New York
thru way
a month, a minute
after the wreck.
I’ve got to get back
to the story I have 

imagined

lovingly, look man

I don’t want 

to die.

The Loneliest Haiku in the State of Montana

she was a sunset

he’ll replay, long past longing,

palms on the window