Thursday, May 8, 2014

NOT SO FAST

Like clockwork—a warm front
winding
easy through the bleary 

city 
streets and—every beating heart 
just stopping;

perchance 
to listen—
to the drooping drone of true spring

or to smell
the cottony vague white stink of its

trees—or to realize that
puffy breeze 
of popcorn or something 

has been wafting—ever nearer
to slow no

motion—on long filaments of Blossom 
Dearie air.

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