Spring

How many sticky buds, candle ends sprout from the branches! Steaming April. Puberty sweats from the park, and the forest’s blatantly gleaming. A noose of feathered throats grips the wood’s larynx, a lassoed steer, netted, like a gladiatorial organ, it groans steel-piped sonatas here. Poetry! Be a Greek sponge with suckers, among green stickiness drenched, I’ll consent, by the sopping wood of a green-stained garden bench. Grow sumptuous pleats and flounces, suck up the gullies and clouds, Poetry, tonight, I’ll squeeze you out to make the parched sheets flower.