Spleen

The spring and I are strangers now,
 extending hungry glances 
 through fat green stems and
 the blush of fallen berries—
 those beloved friends 
 of the pilgrim’s foot.
  
 More and more I slip into the soil
 to read the pages of rock. 
 Retreating to the muddy infinite,
 I spy the fleshy leviathan, 
 earthworm tonguing a local seed,
 speaking too slow and old.
  
 I press a finger to
 this empty parenthetical of skull.
 My hand once thirsted for a pen,
 now, my mimicry of earth things is exhausted.
  
 To hold again
 the high pearls of the night, 
 budding from a handsome book 
 who once erected my clumsy head
 and took his nature in my hands.
  
 The golden ghost rises over river silt,
 is strange and shines in higher hospitality.
 I lean back to receive her glowing lips,
 that she might breath me.
 Though here she comes again,
 among the tender flowers to say,
 spring forth.
  
 I would make a friend of this mind,
 And again draw nectar from its halo,
 now dulled of new revolution by
 my sweet tooth for memory—
 here, I write letters to the sun.

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