April
April is too beautiful.
The edible yellows of daffodils
sicken – egg yolk and saffron –
lesser celandine like butter
rancid amidst the leaves’ plastics.
Cowslips put out hurt face
after hurt face. Tulips are drastic,
dropping pink bruised hearts
in the grass. The world is ending
in slow petalled explosions.
The sky deepens its oxygen blues.
No planes fall from the sky,
they are simply grounded, like cars.
We all breathe, breathe –
and birds sing their true notes.
What has art to do with any of this?
The mind slips from the specifics.
I sketch three birch trees, muses.
Across the paper soft lines,
filigree of branches, ellipses.
The pond wears a sheen like oil
where frogs have spawned.
Bunched jelly bucketfuls
teemed with black-dot eyes
like an alien landing.