Birthday Sonnet

the letter i never sent prefaces
one week prior to astrologer’s debates
over fortunate outlooks unnecessary
in the $752.97 of moderation’s son
crayon and paper hands holding
on this sentimental drive back home
is splinters that dissolve or emerge
new trees of recycled material
caught in perpetual teaching moments
she says another fucking growth experience
torn by anthropology and age limits
that never speak of tough matter
she says good vintage here of soil mechanics
promises to get better at correspondence