March here is more of a run

The Earth will soon be "sexually active" again. I forgot
where I buried a pig with a watch in its throat. The river
is fat and stalked by a kitty. A man in the distance
is building a house from the house the man beside him
is taking apart. If I had a vagina, I'd wonder how it is
and is not a glove compartment, if I had an elephant,
I'd bring her around for you to touch her so much gentleness.
The truth is I'll tie daffodils to my penis one morning
and bring spring to my wife in bed. A neighbor has a skull
he claims was his father's, I have a life I pretend is mine.
Go victim-hood, go elegance, go sunlight, most of which
never touches the Earth but zooms toward other stars
burning their missives. One day you look up and there are gnats
and flies, trees have decided they're dresses, a dog
is humping your leg and you feel flattered by the attention
though not the methodology, if you can forgive me
for dragging you into this poem. More personally,
I love it when the fields switch on, when green decides
it has more fashion sense than all of Paris or Milan,
the days get longer and stay up past their bedtime,
and we're thrown to the wolves of words
like profusion and cornucopia. Life is a woman
taking her hair down and breathing above you
as hard and loud as driving nails into a header
that will hold the sky to its promises
or something, life is something to bite the ear off of
and whisper into the ear whatever tornado
your mind has a mind to tell
Bob Hicok


Bob Hicok

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