The suddenness of spring rubs against the skin

static of the expected and long-waited for

everything I touch is charged

grasses rise with hairs, petals wait for

their single soft applause, birds

spark into song, and we’re stunned as if

this imagery were real. Occasional clouds

tattoo the sky’s egg shell ankle. This morning

the blue old letch was only a pale boy,

hands behind his back, titmouse and deer

guessing what he’d scatter – or if. Even now,

an afternoon wiser, he’s not giving it up.


If we have to invent gods,

at least let mine be sly.


This poem first appeared in Some Sonnets, edited by Tim Wright.

The linked review was written by Richard Lopez.