i am not it, but will endeavour to receive.
to drink whatever light falls through
canopies bejeweled. to turn a face,
offer shoulders for the sun to polish.
perhaps we could walt whitman this.
and name: the ficus, the frangipani. all
count towards a bliss restored, renewed
dispositions for embraces. i read: the air
is blue. not a single cloud is dying. or if,
then glad, rendered onto. we call it:
spring – a time
to grow into grass blades, the clear
glockenspiel of children around,
around. this joyous thing does require
practice. in large amounts, carved out
of misery, the dark – what if absolutely?
what if celebrated? shall i welcome
what invites itself on the field? start
small. start here. with a mouthful.
with cherry tomatoes. the red
roof of the mouth clicking. sonorous, he
repeats, repeats: that living is
the best revenge.
perhaps, this time, he’s right.