All around in
                                                            houses near us, the
                                                            the windows shine back
                                                            sky, it is a
                                                            wonder we
can use the word free and have it mean anything at all
                                                            to us. We stand still. Let the cold wind wrap round go
                                                            into hair in-
between fingers. The for sale signs are bent and ripple in
                                                            wind. One
had fallen last Fall and snowmelt is re-revealing
                                                            it again. Rattle in groundwind. Siding
                                                            weakening on
                                                            everything. Spring!
                                                            the bulbs want to clear the sill of
                                                            dark and find the
                                                            sun. I see
                                                            them now
under there, in there, soggy with melt, and loam which is loosening as their skins
rot, to let the whitest tendrils out, out they go snaking everywhere, till the
                                                            leaves are blurring, they fur-out, they
                                                            another’s year loan
                                                            to time—
and the bud will form in the sleeve of the silky leaf, and they will quietly,
among the slow working pigeons and there where a dog is leaping in almost
                                                            complete invisibility, make slim heads,
                                                            thicken—I am ill, you know, says the man walking by,
his dog pulling him, so much joy, and nothing
                                                            will make it more or less, the flower,
as alive as it is dead, above which the girl with earphones walks humming, no one
                                                            has warned her yet she is
                                                            free, but why, says the
                                                            imagination, have you sent me
                                                            down here, down among the roots, as they finally take
hold—it is hard—they wrench, the loam is not easy to open, I cannot say it but the
smell is hope meeting terrifying regret, I would say do not open again, do not go up,
                                                            stay under here there is
                                                            no epoch, we are
                                                            in something but it is not “the world”, why try to make
                                                            us feel at
                                                            home down
                                                            here, take away the poem, take away this desire that
has you entering this waste dark space, there are not even pockets of time here,
there are no mysteries, there is no laughter and nothing ever dies, the foreclosure
                                                            you are standing beside look to it, there is a
woman crying on the second floor as she does not understand what it will be like to
not have a home now, and how to explain to the children at 3:35 when the bus drops
                                                            them off—
the root is breaking its face open and shoving up to escape
                                                            sun—nothing can stop it—though right
now the repo-men have not yet come, the school bus is only just getting loaded up,
the children pooling squealing some stare out the window. Kiss
                                                            the soil as you
pass by. It is coming up to kiss you. Bend down to me, you have placed me here, look
to me on all fours, drink of the puddle, look hard at the sky in there. It is not sky. It is
                                                            not there. The flame of
                                                            sun which will come out just now for a blinding minute
into your eyes is saving nothing, no one, take your communion, your blood is full of
                                                            barren fields, they are the
                                                            future in you you
                                                            should learn to feel and
love: there will be no more: no more: not enough to go around; no more around: no
                                                            more: love that.






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