Spring is not so very promising as it is the thing

    that looking back was fire， promising：

    ignition， aspiration； 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 underneath

    （still not under my thumb）——

    was he ambiguous， amphibian？

    Underneath， his voice， the many ways

    he gathers oxygen； it will not stop raining

    until the buds push through the brittle 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——