noose where pulse would get through, the pearly glister
of its birth so low on the register—who’d
hear? Softly Virginia’s James summons and starts.
Red blurs from an egg shell, and now the first bird
Spring bleeds into the gray breaking loose, trocheed words
everything seems to speak. At the dead-end road’s
end, water lies with woosh and whip of first storm’s
showering, its useless promise like our hope’s
already running to silence, the blue place
no one enters while the tongue feels its harms.
But B. B. King drifts through trees. Finch slides over,
someone’s lagged in love. The sun’s sax spooks its tune.