March, Here and Last
Left over, tethered to this quivering post,
That marks the advent of this spring’s shadow,
A sheer remembrance, all gossamer and paper snow
Of a Tuesday, March past, a celebration into imminent collapse.
This time, prostrate on the waxed linoleum,
The skins of ragweeds and bursting branches in a thick hive about your cupped hands
You, in prayer, breathe a distant space between
The liquor linings of your synaptic flames, and this, here.
Your renewed intentions, tangled in a spindrift of pollen,
Morph as the milky larvae of insects, christening floral wingtips,
Such that futile divinations as astral projections
Crumple to the bloodied curb of your way forward.
Once more, the sucking sand inside your breast
Swallows all whole and spits out the rest.