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.
