Look, if Spring pressing on and on is real and very matutinal,
(as in the sense of, say,some god named Aton
and a scalding leaf),
I see it or I don't:
and the victualage of one single bud, and its priority to be
(if it happen just once to be where it ought!)
won't keep it bud for long,
any more than the leaf in the said park can give back its hell,
once the bud's been pressed into a fist
And yet the grounds
and smelly effluvia everywhere...
The impression is not of formidable dusk either thrown back
to let the birds fly thru!
any more than the noose on the projective limb, & one angry boy
is, leaving all angry boys to die in far left field
So between Life sucking on night,
and a malefic Tree
to me is found the shitty effluvia stirring under his feet, in the park
with a leaf pressed tight