Spring is not so very promising¹ as it is the thing

    that looking back was fire， promising：

    ignition， aspiration²； it was not under my thumb.

    Now when I pretend a future it is the moment

    he holds the thing I say new-born，

    delicate， sure to begin moving but

    I am burned out of it like the melody underneath³

    （still not under my thumb）——

    was he ambiguous， amphibian⁴？

    Underneath， his voice， the many ways

    he gathers oxygen； it will not stop raining

    until the buds push through the brittle⁵ trees.

    If they fail we will not survive，

    washed and washed with rain， will we？

    No，we are not there yet.

    She is pushing me two ways until

    I am inside the paradox， the many lungs，

    and they're at it again， gathering oxygen；

    no wonder I am wrung out

    holding out for the promise of

    something secret， after——