March: Year-day 68

   
                                          
                                          
March: Year-day 68

Coming as rain, the beasts, layer on layer
clung to what they could, e.g., grasses, trees,
telephone poles and wires until each mayor
in his little town cried in his head, "Please,
your heavy, brilliant bodies have destroyed
already too much, branchesof trees popped--
I hear them yet, poles splintered, unemployed;
flames arcing from bare lines; work patterns stopped."

This morning, in the fair and cold, the sun
(glinting what it kisses onswallowed fields
and bushes and trees--trunks, limbs, branches, twigs
too often spiking their pale insides up
through the careless winds where the hard beasts' needs
have bit them off with themselves) cringes, licks.

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