how long have we stared into the wishing-wells?
has it been a span short as hummingbird
thunder, flummoxed wings whipping
waters frothy?  has it been that small lifetime
lived in love-throes?  the spring is here and so
am I, friends made memory
by swarms of parchment skies.  it is so cold
in my town, Richard.  you have your wife and
warmth like wine that runs rich for the bad
liquor, and at least the two of you can cry.
in my town all we have are fists,
our knuckle tongues that speak to us in anger.

the springtime dances.  I am cloudy in lavish
veils of concrete.  here is the field, but I
am in the bunker waiting for the shells to drop.
I can only see the sky in paper windows
wreathed with love and mystic writer's blood.
the springtime pulls the lily in the grass,
a flower low and snake-like in its writhing.
I don't know why I never see the teeth

the boy is alive with excitement, a wired
frenzy blown like a fuse.  he only sees the sky,
not the fearful colors quaking underneath your
shoes.  wind gusts and I am the boy.  shells drop
and I am the boy.  my boss has left the bunker
and I am the boy playing in machinegun magic,
with only war to wake me up again.  but
springtime knows the truth.  I'll never find
your secret, that warmth like newborn sunshine
that shatters nerves and makes wives cleave.
the springtime bets Cerignola that I'll die just
a little less noble,
having never flexed the strength of real men