Just when we thought winter was over
and outside again, the trees italic.
The company of ants retreat from their
fresh kernings. It's like spring
came into sharp focus, swift
as the lighting of a butterfly on a bare
thigh, like a thought, and away it went,
falling back into the arms of an ambivalent
lover, the low bed of barometer
familiar, the coarse lumbering
of whetherness blowing cold through leaves.
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