Saturday, April 21


Let spring forget who she is
— or what it is,
though seasons be she —

her water breaking
in tremendous distances,

trembling fingers
running t’ward four o
clock on windscreens;
as the gloom

that momentarily
rainbows fought

strew puddles in case
of thirst, for bus-stops
thirst, and umbrellas too —

even if they do praise
‘hallelujah’ in april wind —

count me out of fleeing
from showers
fortunate enough to fall
while tobacco smoke

rises, and I take my
chance to see clean pavement.

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