Why Spring Hurts

A canopy, my dream,
of ferns caressing walk,
and a moon practiced

in the whisper of light,
until a stranger comes,
offered by the jungle.

A senseless man laughs,
takes nothing of import
and shares it as bread

with hungry believers
in impossible collusion
with all aimed and open

to the sun. Simple! A dizzy May
mesmers, they agree to anything,
and we eat the poet's reveries.

Let's make a poet Marshall,
then beat out wild new laws
to jail the well-heeled unwary,

sure and certain oafs, and
anybody ever mean to Mom! Yes!
Life to the unlisteners! Oh,

and you should know your smile
arrives so far before you,
the wet grass is already trampled.