new addresses.

i've grown tired

of the constant

"you" in my poetry.

that is to say,

it is not he

for whom 

the sentiment's deadened

but when

when will the you

you

inevitable you

become a warm ripple,

a zippity do da

for this once whistling heart?

for now,

it heaves and hangs

on watery passion,

dedications and

metaphors splurged

on fleeting enchantments

when there is much 

to the north

or west

that goes

unspoken for.