Disconnected Pantoum
If spring doesn't get sprung
soon I might have to take to
my bed, burrow under the covers
like a lazy groundhog, or
I might have to take to
drinking or driving over the limit
like a crazy mother
lighting out for warmer territories,
drinking and driving past the limit
of this flat state, past acres of dirty snow,
lighting out for hotter territories,
Arizona, Mexico, Brazil.
This flat state is all dirty snow
and mud and unfreezing dog shit.
New Mexico, Arizona, California,
right off into the coastal shelf,
no mud, no frozen dog shit,
just a long slow slide into salty oblivion,
right off the coastal shelf.
The crocus refuse to appear.
Winter is a long slide into salty oblivion,
all the bulbs shriveled underground.
The crocus refuse to appear.
Weak sun shimmers from glass puddles.
All our bulbs are shriveled underground,
hiding dreams of spring in their hard bodies.
Weak sun shimmers from glassy puddles
in malignant smiles,
hiding dreams of spring in their cold bodies.
I'm going to bury myself in my covers,
and I'm not going to talk or smile, no,
until spring decides to get sprung.
No comments:
Post a Comment