Thursday, April 30, 2009

The Hardest Part of Spring

The Hardest Part of Spring

The ragged edge of new field,
An egg:
A hollow bone.

A noticeable sagging
Of skin under eyes,
The economy of

Pinch of salt,
Mashed and muddled
My inability to get
To the root of things.

A long,
Low-slung day.
The world is never new,
As if the rituals of ancients
Were caught in our teeth.

Dab the knife but a little,
Beat your retreat.
The scorekeeping
Of our endless
Country drives.

Sore thighs
Wrapped around modern
The strides of ghosts
Down the backroads
Before the wet ditch,
A pink graveyard
Of hearts.

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