*
The stubble
of another spring,
the madness
of falling hawks
in love, hints of
greedy virgin summer.

* *
I‘m tired of this
furious fatal
rush to
be,

it encourages
rancorous dreams.

the spring’s
insistence

bores bright,
and blooms
my morning’s
coffee,
predicts
my warm stale
rooms of
summer

* * *
All the splendor
of the possible
year
told in a few
lines
makes it nearly
an angry feat
to be so
still

wanting
winter . . .