spring time

the streets are so perfectly dampened
as to seem alive as soil
alive as the image of black bough
hulloo-ed into your eye with large nows
waiting for the echo with cupped hand

alive is a series of steps
complex because it will twist
will cling like sap, like pitch
will rise from you don't know where
from your shoes on asphalt
from familiar morning words
and bedroom window seeping air
off moist rock walls of night, slow as roots
alive is in its spread from head to head
i love the day when you drift in it

spring is when things come back
walking beside you alive like another world would have been alive
full of only other people
and of you nothing but the trace
how hard to think of ashes strewn across this breeze
yesterdays pinched out
it must be something very large that chains together time
along unbroken dreams
halfways remembered
alive reminds
a same old song plucked from your fingers
like pitch a song
clung along lengths of wire

when you stretch your hand
can you feel how dead things pine
to be free of you?
they leave these nows
spread on softened
echo, touching down on here