Who says No second spring?
High pressure, low seventies, rising
humidity, wind, and pollen
in early March have for a week
reactivated dozens
of musty long-neglected files.
They must have been purged
at some point. No Polaroids
of bodies, dusty cassettes
of cries, blue brittle stapled
carbon copies of words;
their only contents now
are précis, with very occasional
critiques on early Post-It notes.
Not the incident, or a specific
hope, needless to say
no action plan, only the future
each case would inevitably lead to.
It’s warm. I retrace faster walks.
In the bushes, bird-hysterics
yield to the remarks of crows.
In those days I was rigorously
“existential,” too proud for happy endings.
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