Ennui with particular flavor of nightingale.
O, the black plume from the chimney drifts
Like a note from a wine bottle in an open window.
I’ve read too many books – or perhaps not enough.
From this book of spells, I was making a love potion
For the world, but the wind lost my page for good.
I guess, o sorcerer, I just keep adding the heavenly
Ingredients until it thickens bewitchingly.
Store it in a blue bottle with a dark stopper?
Or perhaps give it to the homeless shelter –
They can soak it up in hunks of stale bread.
I’ve noticed no change in the world’s demeanor,
Even in the spring flowers which bloom sparingly.
I’ll leave some on this park bench
And even the birds won’t touch it.
I’ll slip it into this stoup and hope the holy
Will activate it. But the world and I remain
At odds. Night birds with their black beaks
Beat at my windows. I’ve a lamp on,
So I can see nothing of the outside.