the air’s cleft by your guitar pick, rain

strumming gently through the bright of day,

the nostalgia poets yearn for. God,

​

I hate the word petrichor—

crepuscular’s even worse. Give me

those “New Monkey - Keys” of yours,

​

I don’t want pretention,

I want riff & raw & innocent

romp through chords or the hushed

​

rustling of “Say Yes,” I want

this major scale gleaming

like the pendulum

​

of a grandfather clock—

but you’re just a baby, Elliott,

torn up over a breakup or

​

breaking down backstage,

and I’m about to make that turn

I always make in these poems,

​

where I make myself into just

a boy in love with the music, but

that’s too easy, isn’t it, none of

​

this was meant to be easy,

I’m in love with the world

through the eyes of a—a boy,

​

and the song’s so sentimental,

and every revision of the poem just

gets worse, I’m trying to change keys but

​

it’s too distant, dissonant, I want instant

gratification, I want sentiment & cluster

& caterwaul & queer.

 

(after Elliott Smith)