Wednesday, February 1, 2012

“I prefer the absurdity of writing poems to the absurdity of not writing poems.”

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.
Wislawa Szymborska

The First Season

Dirty-foot souls’
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
stoop, ass-on-heels
to smell shop flowers.
I sing,
God damn Spring!
God damn.

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