Bestial
april snubs the last of the snow
as if shooing failed psalms.
why dwell on the sacrifice
of bare-ribbed angels?
it is time instead to swoon
over worm-rich wallows,
those bazaars of flex and green
young with solar vigor,
heat's largesse to devour.
do winter-numbed roses
notice buds that percolate up their vines?
or are they like us
when it comes to the lance and rush,
our first gallop across a fertile mandala
to arch as bold as
a seed which jumps to split and spread,
vivid as a lover
yet murmurous with
throbs under soil unseen?
it is certain, bestial,
that without the patience of ice,
there will be no secrets.
roots will drink of unleashed sins.
the last of some chaste god lies pale,
crucified and cleansed
as clear ichor bleeds away--
and we celebrate
as it goes.
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