March: Year-day 77

               
                                                                
                                         
[ Treat the following as a period piece and
  focus on the intellectual distance I gave it. ]

March: Year-day 77


Crisp and clear, with just a stroke of haze here
today, the two red-snowsuited kids bright
against the blue / the trees' wounds, harsh and sheer,
I think of my cross-legged nakedness--light
upon the bed--and of how Oshkosh was
three years ago, St. Patty's Day, the last
in Streak Week, during which I, just because,
joined some guys led by a gal, and moved fast.

It's amazing how what one feels he feels
he seldom has that urgency to show
which shows his difference from rocks and eels
or the blear encasements of ice and snow
even if shucked of his clothing he reels,
pretending he'd share who exists below.

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