I

Now the small buds are pronged
to the boughs like candle-butts.
Steaming April! The adolescent park 
simmers. 

Like a lassoed buffalo, the forest 
is noosed in the ropes of shrill feathered throats—
a wrestler, all gratuitous muscle, 
caught in the pipes of the grand organ.

The shadows of the young leaves are gummy. 
A wet bench streams in the garden. 
Poetry is like a pump 
with a suction-pad that drinks and drains up 

the clouds. They ruffle in hoop-skirts, 
talk to the valleys— 
all night I squeeze out verses, 
my page is hollow and white with thirst.