"Spring: 11 Poems"
Spring: 11 Poems
The bright yellow shouts/of new-bloomed forsythia and daffodils
Donna Smith, “Untitled”
They lift their body weight in an overhead press, daffodils, muscle boys of the park.
Losing an hour of spring is not equal to gaining an hour of winter; we lose all our lives.
In Tompkins Square the cherry blossoms flaunt their dual citizenship.
Two mysterious lights in the sky, too low to be satellites, too high to be helicopters.
The woman behind the cash register smiled at us when you picked up Hot Men with Dogs.
We carry grocery bags over the threshold, and pressed shirts and red wine.
Painting represents light, photography makes use of light, I am a painting made from a photograph.
Last spring you showed me the forsythia; this spring I see them by myself.
Spring show at the Met: La Coiffure, a woman brushing another woman’s hair.
You have to take a test before spring begins, the first question, where did winter go?
The smell of fried salmon stays in the room, on my fingers and on your mouth.
The bright yellow shouts/of new-bloomed forsythia and daffodils
Donna Smith, “Untitled”
They lift their body weight in an overhead press, daffodils, muscle boys of the park.
Losing an hour of spring is not equal to gaining an hour of winter; we lose all our lives.
In Tompkins Square the cherry blossoms flaunt their dual citizenship.
Two mysterious lights in the sky, too low to be satellites, too high to be helicopters.
The woman behind the cash register smiled at us when you picked up Hot Men with Dogs.
We carry grocery bags over the threshold, and pressed shirts and red wine.
Painting represents light, photography makes use of light, I am a painting made from a photograph.
Last spring you showed me the forsythia; this spring I see them by myself.
Spring show at the Met: La Coiffure, a woman brushing another woman’s hair.
You have to take a test before spring begins, the first question, where did winter go?
The smell of fried salmon stays in the room, on my fingers and on your mouth.
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