spring is a time of death
that envisions
comfortable pajamas
and a very dark room
in glacier-level ac.
spring is a time of
death that still lingers
stretching, yawning
not quite knowing
what to do with itself
like a Mahler symphony
still half-way through.
spring is a time of
rivers thawed
mountain passes breached
and death beating drums
supreme
the painful erections of goats.
Spring
is a time of death crashing midnight highways
and haunting the noontime drowned
spring
is a time for death
but not memories, please, hush,
don’t, don’t ,don’t…
spring is a time to burn inside the wicker work
smoke rising
like a giant conspiracy of ravens flying up.
—
J.C. resides in Florida. He engages in a variety of philistine occupations. He has authored the recently published poetry collection ” the sun sets like faces fade right before you pass out.”
The Zingara Project 