03.02.2004
with apologies
it's just spring, though not really, these ugly shaffolds
enfold a carton of acaulescent shrubbery
moistening air fat with accusations,
where have I been and what have I done there
a clutter of crusted trash waits still
on ground's resilient grasses
head of hair felled slantwise and painful
the scalp with that bruised tension
she thinks she slept all wrong
through this even she smells awoken
the sweet grave scent pulls
across folds of gray and melting
ghosts of snows just past
hands of that obscene landlord
always just outside the door
with eager sharpened mouth
things carry further on lightened air
through windows thrust upward against
what weight they've gained in resting all winter
everything's come up to suck in this
gently stretching breath
and peel off the shroud
(thanks, recent commenters who've forced me to force something out. i needed that.)
