My Uncruel April, My Totally Equal
Unforetold April Unfolded
Added cups and plates
rotate other stars
in your sequential platforms.
As with all good (real) poetry movements
we splice the past
Aprils, walking near himself before there,
her pleated heart,
The Question Undoes Itself
On an organic twittering machine
Trumpet vine of the Bottle Brush Fire
Escape playing itself on the grassy beds
Of Hyancinth, light-bulbed, headboarded, made up,
Observed, vibratory-color bannered sheets of
Fire Sabi beauty, old peeling jumbled, a mess.
The purple Third Avenue L, the Horrors of Spring.
Ecstatically crying, to peaceful wellbeing
Maintenance of the handful of unhatched speckled
Eggs thrown from the next nest, mixed with
The hand-drawn line so far from your usual practice.
We are able to move
We are able to sew well
Wet tea roars on storms
Rome Born meets lost teams alone
Women or Men, we are
We are sore sonnets
No More Alone
Eat lore’s stews,
Mom, moan nor roam