as if endings didn’t
have their beginnings
in mind, some well-meaning someone says to take it
at a time, so I take it like some heroin-mirror—neatly prescribed.
it’s spring, which the sun knows,
which the birds know
because they’re all lungs, but there’s still this whole
rhetorical question of snow, asked by everything—
THE PINES, for instance:
How fucking fresh are we?
My boot tread’s ice-packed, but the buds still flash
as if from under a trench-
nothing’s enough yet