Look, if Spring pressing on and on, is real and very matutinal,
(as in the sense of some god named Aton
and scalding leaf),
I see it or I don't:
and the victualage of one single bud, and its priority to be
(if it happen just once to be down here!)
won't stay bud for long,
any more than the leaf in the said park can give back its hell,
once the bud's been pressed into a fist
And yet the offshoot
and smelly effluvia...
The impression is not of formidable dusk either thrown back
--to let the terns fly thru!--
any more than the noose on the projective limb, & one angry boy,
is, leaving angry boys to die in far left field
So between Life sucking on night,
and a malefic Tree
the shitty effluvia stirring at my feet,
Spring pulled tight
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