Wednesday, June 16, 2010

A Request of Springtime ~ Ray Succre


I ought to spring lustrous as your costume,
yet am cankerous to the new bud or breed.
Your virulent pace is not infinite, yet the mosses
of your enervated authors—
I have never understood it.

For once, Spring, time of year casting animations
in flocks and flower bales, be my wife,
be cognizant of me, learn me my slave-star,
or give me one: Euterpe, cigarette, the dead,
I am open, strident, even while cantankerous
and fucked in the gears.

Throw to me scabs of what you give my fellow kind.
I ought. I expect. I may.
Set me to work, be an overseer,
hat me in notions, halt me at ramparts,
be my intake or my parent, deify your droplets to me,
no strong beware, but plain divinity—

get me to life and spangle my very eyes in green,
where red has always predisposed the way.

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