busted wreck
of late March, spring
is no pleasing,
no delicate thing—
in fact,
she looks more
like a fiend,
an addict, a mess.
If figures:
the enfant terrible
of the seasons
has once again
confronted us with
"difficult art."
All who dare look
upon the cold
fecond dross
of her latest, most
reasonless canvas
must wonder: am I looking
at the end of something?
Or is this just
the start?
