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by Bruce Willard

I was tired of wanting,
tired of morning,
tired of the way the ocean waits
for the sun to set.

I was tired of thawing,
tired of spring.
Tired of hoping
bulbs would rise.

And when they did,
I was tired of the longing
sexual smell of the earth,
so expectedly ugly
and eager

that there was nothing
left to want.


Bruce Willard’s first collection of poems is Suspect of Certainties. He has poems forthcoming in African American Review, Harvard Review, Salamander, and 5 AM. He divides his time between Maine and California. (11/2010)

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