Shade and cellulose should knead a soul loose.
Fresh-cut buckets, rash, caught aback and
seeds releasing a flourish of sod’s lacy nog, a flowery shove
into the air, no tether.
The chest, heavy, frothed. Chaste hive
of stone, heavy. A fist—no—you have—
good god—
a punch reversed; you pinch a river’s ode.
Relief is brief, of course. Or life is. Brave, if coarse,
to say “Take me” to spring. To haste a comet’s pyre-ing.
A body can’t save you from the body. Badly can the savoir faire abide
in these conditions. Poems. Nether seconds, shining spasms.
Seasons are, inherently, echoes—Sighs in rain, hurried, leak so.