but count on eating at least
one bad clementine this week—
its peel a siren’s call like the glow
of buildings with unblinking eyes.

You must believe in spring
but you live vicariously
through your city’s football team.
Men whose hands won’t stop shaking—
men who gallop in the night.

You must believe in spring
but the crows won’t let you. They hang
heavy from the branches like rotten fruit.
Even if you do nothing, something will grow.