I text you ‘cause
I’m in need of a poem,
and, you and I, we 
make the needles on pine trees 
sprout flowers in the middle of winter;
we melt the snow with our breath,
and the way our hearts quiver
could cause an earthquake out west—
and...well,
my mind changes like New York weather
and, now that I think about it,
as much as you're 
the song I want to hear,
texting you won’t clear
the low-hum static in my ear.
(—But, I mean, 
if you want to come over,
it could be worth a try.)