Wednesday, February 1, 2012
We have a principle that all poems about spring are automatically disqualified. This topic no longer exists in poetry. It continues to thrive in life itself, of course. But these are two separate matters.
The First Season
dirty foot soles
blossom into calves, of all things,
on the first afternoon in the first season
of nothing but afternoons.
Socks oughta be outlawed.
A pervert’s paradise, here, on sidewalks,
where white sundress silhouettes
to smell shop flowers.
God damn Spring!
Posted by Brendan at 11:33 PM