Feathered pressures
filter through the slightly
wilted scent
of hyacinths, a spring
reneged of its
promise before
bedtime, all daydreams
on layaway until
a tomorrow when
the threat
of snow is once
again passed
and Easter flowers
forget their bitter-
tipped Lenten promises.
Then,
then the poets
will grow like grass
fed on a sun in song,
open windowed-
coquettes batting
long-lashed verses
at the heart of a city
and spilling secrets
from bound pages tucked
in unbuttoned sleeves.

(Until then let
the runners run
and the dreamers
drink. You and I shall
close our eyes
and breathe deep
of dying hyacinths
as we
wring the holy water
from our best Sunday
sheets, making nests
from nightmares and
sweatstains where
together we’ll lie
down to

wait.)