x: It’s Spring. Love’s Spring.
The April stirring
not to be denied. Inert
wonderings try me.
And I am very Death that lusts after all men;
that straight and crooked draws into his ken
all bright live eyes
to wive. Avidly.
The mind possesses them. Another life!
To trick the inevitable weather.
To spring the catch: but the catch
springs up from the song
long as the year, an engagement, lifelasting,
even distracted . . .
It is a melody skirted, a configuration
— as in Schönberg’s Serenade —
a blossoming in shame, almost seen
or heard, but never . . .
an exact other melody of the strings
that art refuses to render
useful.
And so — unrenderd —
we are torn apart
— as April rips the weather of our hearts —
longing from longing:
we could not afford, or lovewise devise
the cost
that sustains us.
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