Spring sprang sprung

The dandelions are beautifully misplaced
boutonnieres in the rain, each
a possible sunrise for the lapel
I'd wear tuxedoed to the dance
with Persephone's cheek against my chest
the whole time. Even when she pees.
Even when she's puking peppermint
schnapps out the window of the limousine.
Excuse my metaphorical excess
but spring's the child I'll never have,
she's a teenager already and clearly
into sex though we never had the talk,
o you horny wily willows, o you exploding
flowering whatever pink thing you are
over there, I think tulip trees
have no tulips as I know them, fortunately
language has little say on the overflow
I'm caught in the undertow of.
I was just hanging out counting hairs
on my knuckles when chlorophyll
went apeshit a month back and the rain
just stopped, the world smells sexy
as a woman stepping from a shower
and asking for the towel I know better
than to give her. We're fresh out of dry,
dear heart, you just stand there
in your sheen and shine, is my come-on
to treeline and bee hive, the strictly
speaking all I'm in thrall of,
can't you tell from this awkward
patois that I'm no hump-gabber, no "o baby"
kind of guy. And here's the thing,
sweety, sock-hop, foxtrot, what I adore's
the do-over of the deal, the one-offness
of this, the nth incarnation of life
doing what life just does, seek
and destroy, sure, that yin-yang stuff's
tres true, but right now, at my age, seek's
the rage with me, the wet and bright
and lust and luster of this green
reaching out and reaching through.
Bob Hicok


Bob Hicok

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