April is the cruelest month, with
cherry flowers reeking of asthma, and
finches chirping to my wheezing.

Wheeze… chirp!
Wheeze… chirp!

To a dumpster by the sycamore tree
revived once more by the season, I throw
a white trash bag with pounds of crumpled
facial tissues with fresh traces of my face–
a patch of my face, that is.

Cherry… Sneeze!
Cherry… Sneeze!