but now it will. I have confessed it,
perhaps not as I should,
but as I am able. I sneeze out poems
for Spring's popping color-spread.
This familiar pollen: placid catalogues
of reproduction, regenerative
seasonal coordinates, reminded
of a love that once left me upon
a dusty path in secession, whirlpools
of solitude, thick foggy yellow
in this abbreviated air, my lungs stuffed
like Thanksgiving turkeys, dark yellow
as seasons rotate like cyclic endometrial lining,
turns me into an Asian man.
Why Spring? I could have written
of summer, should write about the future,
not of the now, a Huxley-like protuberance
rising from my fingers, but furtive
and docile. Love, a season of itself,
within itself. I handed her an island
of particular earth, we scented out the voids
of birds and let their harmonies echo
into us until we became crisp sheets of sky,
and above all voices, the song, the whales
we became in our childishly-sly oceanic waves.
Our light, definitive whiteout. Even now
I part it, bending it back; the key to anything
is everything, and everything consumes
a substitute. My poignance is pinpointed
by perhaps what I say, or do not say.
I sneeze. Someone scoop my eyes from
this window. I surf through memory each day
as if opening a penance. I have outsmarted
the ability to flee. I hear a train in the distance.
It arouses my attention. Every day, there is
an odd kind of emotion that sneaks up on me,
like holding out a promise to a machine
by informing it that it will never become an
isolated agent. These forces have recurring
limps; the involuntary muscle-contractions
of thought, of time, of memory, of love lost,
will always be like geysers of the soul
when one has already accepted them as
regulatory.
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