literature

Spring Cataclysmic

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Literature Text

Spring is in the death of me.
I am all flower and no flower. The air too
is complicit in its secret-keeping. All
either or's or either/or. My mouth
tastes like the word “whore.” Gardening day,
the shoots are budding, green onions
must be chopped before they sprout, many
common vegetables are edible when young, grown old
they are poisonous flowers turned to dust, they are
older now. The roots must be too deep in concrete;
the foundations are all coming apart. Leaving
and going. There are houses to be sought, trees
full of paperwork to be filled out. This whole world
is a mesh of leaves, forms, and envelopes. The whole world
tastes of shredded wheat. And I am both ink and combine harvester.
.
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