March, Here and Last

Left over, tethered to this quivering post,

That marks the advent of this spring’s shadow,

A sheer remembrance, all gossamer and paper snow

Of a Tuesday, March past, a celebration into imminent collapse.

This time, prostrate on the waxed linoleum,

The skins of ragweeds and bursting branches in a thick hive about your cupped hands

You, in prayer, breathe a distant space between

The liquor linings of your synaptic flames, and this, here.

Your renewed intentions, tangled in a spindrift of pollen,

Morph as the milky larvae of insects, christening floral wingtips,

Such that futile divinations as astral projections

Crumple to the bloodied curb of your way forward.

Once more, the sucking sand inside your breast

Swallows all whole and spits out the rest.