Now the small buds are pronged
to the boughs like candle-butts.
Steaming April! The adolescent park
Like a lassoed buffalo, the forest
is noosed in the ropes of shrill feathered throats—
a wrestler, all gratuitous muscle,
caught in the pipes of the grand organ.
The shadows of the young leaves are gummy.
A wet bench streams in the garden.
Poetry is like a pump
with a suction-pad that drinks and drains up
the clouds. They ruffle in hoop-skirts,
talk to the valleys—
all night I squeeze out verses,
my page is hollow and white with thirst.