MAYBE JUST THIS
ONCE—THIS SPRING
might I combat
the sun; divesting smells
that earth exudes
unable to impede
the ritual seed’s
wet divaricated
thrust that need
not take us by surprise.
Let’s claim
delight, but have done naming
miracles. The unindoctrinated young
display contempt
or curiosity,
are confounded or
seduced with only shoots
tenuous-tangible,
green, not the promised
phantom memory
packs from age to age
of graying
apparitional hopes. Let me
make or murder,
cool, benign. . . let
me trample
through this last sweet spring.
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