MARCH JAUNT

The seasons collide, each trying to outrace
the undertaker’s advance of the next.
A June sun burns in March, making us sweat
beneath wool, making the rain gutters salivate their icicled jaws.

“The snow turns black in Queens,” he said,
christened with soot before it meets the ground.
“Not like here,” he said.

Here, where the finely muscled hill-top
is splendid and glaring in white.
Our hungry tires want to devour it,
ride a surgical incision up its’ side.
Oh, let crystals salt shaker my eyelids,
let the blue turn so hard I can mail it to Miami!
And who ever said the sun’s not a woman to sleep with? Wake up to find yourself
thawed all over the bed sheets, a spring
chicken cooked without remorse.