the fling of it all

as into orbit 

as off the bed 

or onto it 

as in I'm sitting in the neck 

of the river wonder-drowning 

while moss grows over all my cavities & my affection is a whisper-shout 

but I can't risk the explicit, or so goes the reason all poets must burn, 

the truth being nothing but a dense layer of frost, the worst of us making a fortune off dewdrops, March's currency: 

this is my family name. 

here is a many-tongued hyacinth. 

spring is a glissando 

down my softest parts. 

you are the sun: read: unfathomably lit.