My lines get so tangled and twisted.
I cannot make a poem about moving water
seem like it is about a woman’s hair-do.
Honestly, I give up.
There is nothing I can do to make
the little creek coming out of our hillside after heavy rains
resemble my wife’s pigtails.
The mismatch going on inside of me
is so badly removed from reality.
Wildflowers do not make mascara.
Running water is not a red scarf.
Desire is complex, but does not form a complexion.
Letting one’s hair down is not the same as feeling the joy of a wild early spring
in these forested hills.
All this useless inventing today.
I could have been listening to her.