Alcove

        It is possible that spring could be
	once more approaching?  We forget each time
	what a mindless business it is, porous like sleep,
	adrift on the horizon, refusing to take sides, “mugwump
	of the final hour,” lest an agenda—horrors!—be imputed to it,
	and the whole point of its being spring collapse
	like a hole dug in sand.  It’s breathy, though,
	you have to say that for it.
	 
        And should further seasons coagulate
	into years, like spilled, dried paint, why,
	who’s to say we weren’t provident?  We indeed
	looked out for others as though they mattered, and they,
	catching the spirit, came home with us, spent the night
	in an alcove from which their breathing could be heard clearly.
	But it’s not over yet.  Terrible incidents happened
	daily.  That’s how we get around obstacles.