In April
broken heat
stinks rising from
the tool-wise
pavement up-up
by a rounding deluge
to swallow wind
pregnant as wine
blushing
is this air: In April
sounds drop a
ring for lush
garden green hill scenes
pastel picking bare, no -
this is fog
eyes to be piked on
newly found
hollow nasals
and gritty
smelling glands
night lamps share no
fog above the
breeding April earth
My red tongue is earth-wet
and pelvis, vorpal-dead -
even feet are
sloppy in April
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