Spring is dizzy; it salivates. You know how this has gone,
will go. The mulch, the acrid honeysuckle, the girls and boys

daubed with pheromones. Even the nose hairs flinch
in excitement. But a sweet joy comes when I eat an avocado

alone in the kitchen, and the breeze blows past me through the open
window, a sheet passing softly across an arm. We’re all being

reupholstered. You with me. Me with this sheen
of hot sweat. I’m munching on the fruits of your labor, the neurons

in my head. The lakes are full now, robust. The trees fill in
like hair. Your intentions are wide like arms, or roots, or

bad ideas. I hold the corona of the sun in my mouth. As I write this,
May arrives. And yes, come to think of it, everything is wide:

the silence that hangs around the lone metal chime.