Fold the fast
sharp pinching
piccolo cries—
of a few
dappled gulls from across
the slate
lot—of postwinter
macerated Styrofoam
convenience
store cup-
dusted concrete—
quickly
into the hot doughy
ferment
of Gregorian
Chant that should by now currently
be ballooning up
thick-
ly around your wet April
bowl
of a head—and keep
stirring the whole mass
around vigorously
to the tune of that
pitch-
white and
wiseacre wind—
'til it all
starts
to
curdle
and
the
curdles
start
to
clot—
and don't look
now—but just
what have you got?
