Apologies in advance—for
whatever they're worth
to every small
morning bird out there
currently chirping—oo-de-lolly!
oo-de-lolly!
ooh-la-
la—gee! golly!
up, down and all over
each still-
tender chilly
bald limb on Bosworth—
but today
the much milder March
air settling in
across the tired
shoulders of our shy
new city has engendered
an entirely different sort
of mass
all-together—the homily of which regards
true glory!
as something much quieter;
condensation
on shop windows—
fog on low
sidewalks—
the brave blush
of a little
sun on ice—reflecting,
refreshing,
reanimating the promise—
that even all
the glass
and the muck
and the ash—
the dogshit and
Jewel bags and tidal waves
of sidewalk morass—
will not only
pull-
back, but moreover
will likely—
make truly
great manure someday.
