Spring is not so very promising as it is the thing
that looking back was fire, promising:
ignition, aspiration; it was not under my thumb.
Now when I pretend a future it is the moment
he holds the thing I say new-born,
delicate, sure to begin moving but
I am burned out of it like the melody underneath
(still not under my thumb)--
was he ambiguous, amphibian?
Underneath, his voice, the many ways
he gathers oxygen; it will not stop raining
until the buds push through the brittle trees.
If they fail we will not survive,
washed and washed with rain, will we?
No, we are not there yet.
She is pushing me two ways until
I am inside the paradox, the many lungs,
and they're at it again, gathering oxygen;
no wonder I am wrung out
holding out for the promise of
something secret, after