Wednesday, March 21, 2018


Little flecks of rude spring
hang, like some
crescent hallucination

in the still-
lidded pupil of
intransigent Winter—

the dismal old man
who yet lies
lies stubbornly sleeping in the doorstep

shivering in the death-throws
of his raw frenzied dream.
These mornings, the green dew clinging

to everything's well-
defined outline
was still over-promised;

and yes, the blue afternoon
skies remain under-delivered
and in serious need

of reheating. But the blazing
plum red evenings—emphatically now
not arriving 'til 7

and already overly ripe with their
own tender associations—definitely won't be