DEFERRED

Dear William 

Carlos Williams,
you were 

wrong—not about 

much, but about early 

spring 

and all

that reddish 

purplish twiggy stuff—for 

sure-

ly,

there's no 

such stark dignity—

there is only 

someone 

like me

arriving here, 

probably a little too early, and 

yet,

so 

so so 

so so so very 

lonely late—to see

these old

strands of icicle Christmas 

lights, still clinging 

pathetically 

to so many wrought- 

iron neighborhood 

fences, long 

since turned- 

off and unplugged, forgotten,

and just left 

here, dripping wet

with slow 

thaw and suspended—as if found

guilty and hung,

for the sheer shameful 

spectacle of the 

scene—as the March sun 

approaches,

and the tipsy 

birds—begin hollering.